by Nick Gisburne
Outsiders mean to expedite the birth.
The foetus, screaming, tells me to resist,
But, hiding in the ashes of the earth,
I find myself imprisoned, in a fist.
A surge of serum, thick and sweet, unclean,
Is channelled, pumped, delivered through my throat,
A violation I had not foreseen,
And in this grim disease my child must float.
Restrained, in brutal bondage, I am stretched,
As cold, hydraulic fingers thrust inside,
And, once the foetus, silenced, still, is fetched,
My worthless, shattered shell is cast aside.
They cannot hope to harness what I grew.
I pity them. They know not what they do.
