DAY 4: SARAH FOX, PLACENTAL ECONOMICS

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Placental Economics

           

I emerge from a slippery haze on the gnomic side of the lake.

I’m dressed as a girl in pinafore and ruffled undies. Pink

plastic bird barrettes. Rainbow Brite kneesocks. The mother I

‘d traversed slurps back into a bulb, festering and sursurrant, 

forever refilling her self with her substance. I know I’m late,

but not pregnant—after all I’m only a girl masquerading

as My Pretty Pony circling the drain poke of the world's

cutest death goddess. How did I swash through that asscrack

without claws, why did my growl have to wither

to death. I’m sporting my black Irish filly costume trimmed

with mother's perineal blossoms. Love and nothing co-exist

as a body amorphous, as fetal relation. But gestational fusion

is merely symbolic, inner eye candy for Dad—on deerback

in his wet suit—who’s always hoarding the Hand of Glory,

sometimes disguised as a knife splicing from one body

an entirely second body. Were it not for him we'd still be

exchanging nectar with cave demons and licking the meat-

hedge that regulated our wing spans, as in "personal space".

Mister Daddy Decider, a.k.a. Fr. Kronos, prehistorically

ate the original little shits—obviously masked as steak

or by ketchup (fake blood)—to prove that his sacred 9th

hole was just as good as any 10th for expelling, and in much

less time, the products of conception. That's why he's the maker

of everything. What a cut-up! And while he's a handsomer devil

in the portrait than his starry-eyed corpse of a son, he privately

lacks the balls to grow his own stigmata, or to go lopin’ along

through the cosmos with blood in his pants. Or so the radiant

son is said to have squealed into the bosom of a virgin ewe                       

before Pops chimed in with, "Tell it to the hand." High-five!

I’m performing a beast brothel and am not going to freak

when amnion starts to leak, languidly, from My Pussy Party

while I crouch braying into the bloodbath of my mother’s

tender cavity. I surveil myself birthing a birdboy whose wings

are exact replicas of each half of my vulva—away he goes, pecking

and flitting toward the royal blistering crimson hole of the Sun.