War in the womb
Your death or mine 
****** if not kept 
Suicide if it is 
Either way
Agony

Squall
by Michael R. Burch

There, in that sunny arbor,
in the aureate light
filtering through the waxy leaves
of a stunted banana tree,

I felt the sudden monsoon of your wrath,
the clattery implosions
and copper-bright bursts
of the bottoms of pots and pans.

I saw your swollen goddess’s belly
wobble and heave
in pregnant indignation,
turned tail, and ran.

Published by Chrysanthemum, Poetry Super Highway, Barbitos and Poetry Life & Times. Keywords/Tags: pregnancy, pregnant, goddess, belly, wrath, anger, storm, monsoon, hormones, pots, pans

The honey on the
wet orchid glistens in
the sweet afternoon light.
I softly lick the
petals and the bud.
Her sigh is like a
symphony.
The emotions pound through
me like an Ocean of love;
like a river of madness.
The juice sticks to my soul,
and I want nothing less than
to give her breath and life.

Our life lives inside
her.
My walnut haired angel;
my freckled dreamer.
She's swollen and sensual;
beautiful beyond spring.
Far above the ocean's light.
I want to take her to
a meadow and make
love to her with the
breeze and sparrows watching.
I want to taste the
sticky sweet dew on her
thighs, and wake up next
to her for the rest
of my life.

As if waking up
Natsukashii - been a while
was this lust I feel?

There's been a disruption
in your body's

p a  tt  ern,

b-r-a-n-c-h-i-n-g
river ways
                                                          ­                 form a road map,

             a
maternal
             mosaic,

z
i
g
g
z a g g i n g
                                  a   c   r   o   s   s

peaks
.
.
.
and valleys,

******* >
           bums ~
                   hips ~
                         and (~) tummies.

Vividly hued
in pinks or reds
or silver threads.

One-of-a-kind,
universal at the same time.

Glitter                                      stria,
      ­           shiny, sparkly,
oh-so                                     pretty.

  Worn with pride!
                                                          ­            Or do they hide?

They test you,
                      like any child,

REFUSING
to alter their behavior,

REGARDLESS
of how nicely you ask.

                          Baby's left her mark on you!

Love those lines
as artistic souvenirs,
acquired
on the long journey

                                                        ­               to becoming a mother.

                                    Like
                                    Love
                                    Letters
                    ­                they always have a story.

  What does your story tell?

Allow me to bend
At the knees.

Allow me to weep.
Uncannily.

Over a basin,

A nearby water source.
Outside of my own.

I could be compared to

Those giving birth
Naturally.
Maybe.

I quite honestly Don't
Particularly,
Give a flying ****.
It's not about you.

But understand this
I am not over
I am not ended

Unceremoniously.

I am whole,
Though I am missing
Parts and pieces.

Lungs.
Bones.
Brains.

A newborn heart.

Hungry mewling
Whines.
Cries.
Tinkling laugher.
Unending diapers.

I lack those.
But still I am whole,
Even though I am only one.

I am whole.
And I need not
Nor want
Anything more.

I am whole.
As I am.

I have not ended.
I am not an uninhabitable
Husk.

I am me.
I am whole.
Just as I am.

Just allow me
To Weep
For a moment.
Just one.