Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash

In Exile

A pumpkin at 28 weeks, I expanded,
broke the vine, left Eden and its snake
on a path forged by her, Mother of Us all.
Two fledgling in my womb kicked

syncopated blows against taut skin,
sought power over my ripeness,
my breath sleep digestion.
Their blows penance for my pleasure.

When the river signaled their exit —
I pushed. They refused to leave.
So I was splayed hipbone to hipbone
to release the tiny tormentors.

I rocked them both against my breasts;
the snake slithered against my legs.