sooner or later
sooner or later
i’ll have to tell about him about
the baby
and the way its hair is red and muddy,
like fox fur
or
a silent night,
the type we used to have when we liked
to rub our thighs together and drink
deep, warm coffee.
i’ll have to tell him about the way it cries in the morning
and the time i gave it cow’s milk because i didn’t know any better
or the time i just lay there and watched it cry
its tears blue, almost milky
and i poured myself vodka because it was cold
but i didn’t warm up.
i’ll have to tell him
and his face will curl and crack
and inevitable cruel pain will
suddenly
out of nowhere
somehow
crash into him
and somehow
i will be responsible
for the heartache
dripping down his chin,
like an egg or spilt coffee or even
fried onion,
shimmering on his mouth
and he won’t realise
i’ve been carrying this pain inside me
like a shark in my pocket
for a very long time.
because the condom broke
because i swayed gently
in the pink light
because
that’s what the sunset
and the emerging moon
does to you.
he’ll look at me
his eyes sort of round
and he’ll ask me, unfurling an arm
if i had considered
abortion.
the dirty word will sink into the air
and i won’t answer,
i’ll pull out a cigarette,
dipping it into the lighter
watching the flame
flicker and dribble to
nothing.
he’ll turn around,
eyes yellow and bloated
and ask me
in his scratchy scathing voice
did you smoke when you were pregnant? it’s just the kind of irresponsible thing you’d do. that baby has rights you know. how could you do this, this is my baby, i’m so ashamed, i’m so broken, i want this baby to be strong. CHRIST
he’ll scream,
banging a fist down,
shattering the vase holding the
peony roses
and the tea cups will wobble
the yellow lilies etched into the china
shaking.
you’re so reckless, so immature, so pathetic, why can’t you grow up, this baby deserves the best, JESUS i can’t believe you’re smoking
and suddenly he’ll be crying,
the light catching his face
rolling across his nose,
striping him into
something i can’t quite understand,
and as he cries,
his tears running blue,
then buttery,
glassy, bold,
suddenly frail,
i’ll wonder if the baby
is crying
too.
Katelin Farnsworth is currently studying Professional Writing and Editing in Melbourne, Australia. She has been writing for as long as she can remember and can’t imagine a world without books.