WHAT DID MY BABY DADDY AND I DO TO EACH OTHER IN PAST LIVES?
a week after conception I felt the sphere of cells
gnaw a notch into the dead center of me
my baby daddy laughed and sang
circled his arms around me to show
gnaw a notch into the dead center of me
how big my belly would get
circled his arms around me to show
he was right he was happy as we rode in the gold car
how big my belly would get
our baby kicked with each boom of bass
he was right he was happy as we rode in the gold car
I used to laugh at his songs until I was living it
our baby kicked with each boom of bass
real man a gallis so many gyals so much pum-pum
I used to laugh at his songs until I was living it
the joke’s on you god says when I get to him in sleep
real man a gallis so many gyals so much pum-pum
I could pretend to condense him to a raindrop
the joke’s on you god says when I get to him in sleep
I’m still knotted bedded down by need
I could pretend to condense him to a raindrop
yet I don’t want to worship a husband-god
I’m still knotted bedded down by need
I painted my walls moon-color
yet I don’t want to worship a husband-god
my baby daddy laughed and sang
I painted my walls moon-color
at my altar needing pails of water to anoint me
—from Rattle #58, Winter 2017
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Natalie Solmer: I often make dumb decisions in this lifetime, and despite those ‘mistakes’ which cause me to transform—hopefully—into something better and brighter, I do not know if I could make it through any of this without reading and writing poems. Poetry provides (or perhaps the poet forces) access to a transformative space: revealing hidden layers and meaning to life, imbuing sorrow with magic, at least temporarily. (web)
