the week before my aunt comes to visit

[is always quite hellish.]

the preparations always involves

a quaking in the belly, a numbing of the lips,

an intense fatigue, a melancholy

that whispers bitter somethings.

prior to her arrival,

life no longer feels

worth living;

a nagging drudge, an obligation i wish to resign,

a contrition of womanhood and a

perplexing pang of self-doubt.

ankles, weighed down by fluid

filled hinge joints, simply cooking

and stockpiling hormone rich meals

that will remind me of my own mortality

and the lack of residence in my womb.

I am reminded of all things i hate about

myself:

the witches’ cackle that bellows from my lips

the seeing things that peer of heads and not at them

the bakery that lives underneath my shirt

the accomplishments i have yet to accomplish

the library of unread books

the poems i haven’t written yet

the once pregnant, now empty belly

the apple bottom that may be missing an extra bite

the frozen meat begging to be defrosted and cooked

because maybe a little extra iron will make me want to live more.

before my aunt comes to town,

i am swallowed whole,

thrust into the discomfort

of knowing she is coming,

folded up into the wheels of her luggage,

waiting, waiting, begging forher to dress me in vibrant life

or to roll over my achy body

and tell me i’m not being

dramatic.

crushed cherries

stain my underwear

and suddenly,

the sky is blue,

the birds have remembered their song,

i am no longer choking on pits,

my will to live has found her way

back to my chest.