What is Big as a House and Still Growing? 
 
I feel like a woman who agreed to be shot
with fertility cocktails
that were not on the approved list,
so desperate was she to get pregnant.
Surprise!    Baby's on the way!
Wait.  Looks like we're talking babies.
How do you feel about ten?
May as well make it a dozen -- right?
Babies I'm carrying have skin like paper.
Ink eyes.  Ink blues their still-forming
fingers.  Hair when it comes will stand
in spikes from being rifled through.
They will have extra eyes and ears.
Tongues!   A voice when it comes
will be a riot.  Could cause one.
Cocktail was too strong!   Poems
and songs of magicians call
themselves mere scribes  hopped it up
to the max.  Then I made the mistake
of reading a poet's-poet's book
about the art and agony of creating
you changelings.  All a pregnant poet
needs!  No way will I live long
enough to see you grown.  Gotta go.
Got babies in and out to feed.  
More are on the way, God help
me.  Know about overpopulation,
don't bother.  Paper growing short,
computers contaminating.   So?
Someone has to keep that fellow
at the dump on Old Greensboro
busy.  Use the job, can't he.
Anyway, the verse I carry virtually
bears itself.  Infants  pomegranating
my breasts and diaphragm -- brain, yet --
already kick to get out.  Don't say abort.
Don't want children about,  don't like
to hear them laugh, cry, shout, giggle,  
wheedle, sigh, echo, oo-ah and babble
far more truth than lies,  ciao.
Adore the rascals, myself.

(c) Phyllis Jean Green,  October, 2008

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