SHE THE MACHINE
She is a machine.
A machine made of flesh
& blood.
Or rather his
machine.
A breeding machine.
He has fed his DNA
into her.
She had to construct
product
...in his likeness.
She does her duty.
A mirror tells her of
her beauty.
This is her
raison d'être.
The act itself was neither
here or there.
Almost as if it had
nothing to do with her.
Time works
with her
together they
will provide
son &
heir.
The kick comes
just above her belly button.
Outside the window
the world greets the spring.
She smiles wistfully.
She is a machine made
of flesh & blood.
*
She the cliche trophy wife..always only( always lonely )a prop in his play....a machine for making babies...reduced down to a function. It would be years before she escaped back into being her self....herself alone. He used to beat her unmercifully and still she wouldn't leave him...to the consternation of all her friends. One morning brushing her hair in the mirror she had a heart attack...she fell out of the mirror. She survived oddly enough because of him...coming back to get his car keys...but this brush with death was the release she needed. She never looked back and became a real human being once again. Her self.
The phrase "flesh and blood machine" is her own She always told me she "had no words...give me a voice" so the poem is the promise of that.