like some fucked up amniocentesis,
needles piercing rubber walls
penetrating flesh:

what do you find there, doctor–
will my son be perfect? is my little girl
going to be a retard? should i even
bother having this child?

tell me.

i am quiet fetus constricted between
polyurethane/whitewall/plain toy shop
material, resilient. impenetrable.

i’m sorry, ma’am. we cannot tell
so soon. you will have to wait
for the results, like everyone else.

i can’t wait like everyone else!
everyone is is not carrying this child,
you idiot. i need answers.

i am the original michael phelps,
blowing water bubbles through my
umbilical cord.
the space around me seethes with
old grudges and new confusion.


beyond this place the world waits,
claws extended; i hear its wet hiss
in my sleep. i dream of its scraping
against these walls. it is hungry.
it is desperate.
it is my destiny.

this process takes time, mrs. ______.
you must be patient.

goddamn it, if you don’t tell me
the results i’ll sue this godforsaken
deathtrap for all it’s worth.
do you
do you hear
do you hear me?

internalized neuroses
and unexplained desires,
slit tongues and abnormal concepts
of what’s wrong and what’s beautiful:
my legacy is printed here on these
pulsing walls. the ink is fading fast
and i can’t find the way out, but
i know i’m about to be forced
in that direction anyway.

we have the results, ma’am.
it’s about fucking time. tell me if want this child.
ma’am, that’s– that’s not–
just tell me the fucking results, man.

well…your child, he–

he’s perfectly healthy, ma’am.
there is nothing wrong
with this baby.

perfect? he’s perfect?

no one is perfect, ma’am.

no. my child is perfect.

i dread leaving here– but the door,
it’s already swinging wide.

come home, perfect one.
it’s time.


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