by Sara K. Penrod
Thursday, January 17, 2002
Print Save Become a Fan
You waited years for your Isaac to swell
in your stomach, to suckle at your breast
even though everyone said you were too old
for babies. But you waited, faithful,
for yours, Sarah, laughing when people shook
their heads at your talk of grandchildren.
And then the doctors told you of a child
in your womb. Unsurprised, you wept,
pressed your hand against your belly
to see if the baby moved. It did not,
but they assured you he was alive.
In the morning, your sheets were sticky
with more blood than any other month;
it smeared your pale skin like war paint.
There was no gray body of a stillborn
to hold, Sarah; he didn't live until the altar.
Volta: A Literary E-Zine (accepting submissions)
Want to review or comment on this
Click here to login!
Need a FREE Reader Membership?
Click here for your Membership!
|Reviewed by Mitzi Jackson
|Sad and real..very good|
|Reviewed by Ryan Jesena
|I like the bravery of the poem. It is unafraid to focus on the energy of the imagery. I like poetry that doesn't force feed the image, I like the fact that you have given credit to the reader... Thank you for sharing.
"It's how you walk through fire that counts..." - C.B.
|Reviewed by lana hobbs
|Very good writing. I really like this Sara. Have you read the book, The Red Tent? I can't remember the author right now, but after reading your poem, I know you would love the book. Thanks, Lana|