I’m shedding skin and lizards cross my path;

little lizards, rustling dried leaves

and fallen bark.

 

Birth was a horrendous experience;

I was in so much pain!

Tomorrow—

it will be forgotten.

 

Father cut the shrubs shallow.

He pulled out our beloved lavender bush.

My sister cried.

 

He cut his thumb

and blood trickled

all over the pavement.

Everywhere, he went.

A splash of blood

later removed with water.

 

I was painting red spots on a canvas

anticipating this month’s blood

to rush out of me.

My breasts, swollen and bruised.

 

What a horrendous birth it was—

painful.

Really painful and bloodied.

And doctor rooms:

doctors, nurses, hospitals – and dramas.

Great      big      dramas.

 

I’m tired of dramas

and suffering

and doctors.

 

Home is a marvellous place.

I didn’t leave reluctantly.

I strode out the door, purposefully,

knowing life would take a second of my time.

 

But life lingers on.

It’s a preoccupation of sorts.

Sometimes sweet,

sometimes sour,

and nothing is as it seems.

 

The day my father wounded himself,

I was wearing red knickers.

His blood,

my lace under garb,

all the same colour;

the same depth of colour.

 

I’m shedding skin.

I see broken shrubs as I walk by the river,

broken by dark cockatoos

that come before the rain

and shriek awful like wickedness.

I’d hide my head and pray,

howling inside myself.

 

Now, I don’t even bend a tiny shadow.

I look at the birds—

how beautiful they appear

in the afternoon sunlight,

flying in the unhindered sky.

 

This morning, I began to bleed.

I talk of fertility with a woman friend.

I’ve come to anticipate another birth.

This is the pain.

 

My breasts expand out

and, into my bra,

my flesh rolls.

My stomach turns.

 

Poetry © Linda Cull

 

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