Naomi

The nursery is yellow. The walls and the bassinet. The plush giraffe. It will be a boy. She just feels it. She chose a rocking chair, where she will nurse him, burp him and stroke his hair. When it happens, it will happen in the bathtub. She stored unscented candles in the medicine cabinet, a stereo set to Bach under the sink, and purchased a mini-fridge for high-energy foods. Yogurt and peanuts. Calcium and protein. The midwife’s number is on speed-dial. In the yellow nursery, she sits in her chair, rocking back and forth, calm and collected, hand on stomach. Rush between her legs. Her water broke.

 

At ovulation, we chew pencil erasers. The grey, malleable kind

artists use on sketchbooks when they draw in charcoal. We hold

an affinity for them. They taste great. We don’t know why.

i ask if her navel protrudes and can i see it

We chew them when they’re dirty and they give us canker sores.

 

Cassandra

Hunches at her desk, chair damp. She’s been sitting in amniotic fluid since her water broke three hours ago. Lights off, computer on, phobia raging. Contractions every ten minutes, every four minutes. She clicks, image search. Photo of placenta. Photo of gaping cervix. Rectal tearing, umbilical clamping, goo, slime and so much blood. Clicks and Helen Mirren tells Guardian.com her friend delivered into a pile of excrement that exited her body at the same time. Contractions every three minutes. Clicks and mama2felicity aspirated vomit. Contractions every two minutes. No oxytocin. No sucking on ice chips. She is going nowhere.

 

At three months, we bite sticks of chalk in half. We sneak into

elementary schools to steal them from chalkboards. We have

always desired them. We lick powder from erasers.

her nipples are freakishly dark why would you want that

We bite them by the boxful. We consider lead paint.

 

Dinah

She shakes, sweats, pukes. The transition part lasts one or two hours before shit seriously hits the fan. The cool rag on her forehead is not cutting it. She tried methadone, honestly tried, once the first trimester, twice the second, failed and failed. Nurses ask if she craved pickles and ice cream. She nods. Doesn’t tell them she took her last shot three days ago, said goodbye and flushed the rest. Relax, they say. Push. She does, has to, doesn’t want to, knows it’s coming and coming quick. Four arms and an apple seed heart. She cries. Hopes for fentanyl.    

 

At six months, we stuff our mouths with soil. We finish off

houseplants and move to the backyard. We enjoy grit between our

teeth and how it cakes under our fingernails.

her belly is hard i touch it, it’s fucked up

We stuff our mouths. Go to the playground. There is urine in the sandbox.

 

Jocasta

Most horrible pain. The head is halfway through. Crowning is five minutes of the worst agony you’ll ever endure, no one knows until they’ve done it, ask your mother, like squeezing a watermelon through a lemon. She purged last time she ate watermelon. And her morning toast with butter. All baked goods. After the head’s out, the shoulders will twist. But she is narrow. Her pelvis will crack. It will be hungry and she’s surely milkless, hasn’t touched dairy in years. Starved the both of them. More pain. She screams and expects an incubator.      

 

At nine months, we eat glass. Roommates ask about the light bulbs

in our bathrooms. Taken during a party, we suggest. Not untwisted,

crushed, and consumed with relish.

 stretch marks everywhere i wouldn’t put up with it

We eat glass and we love light bulbs. LEDs and their carcinogens.

 

Naomi

The hospital bed is steel. Silver instruments, scalpels and speculums. The fluorescents are blinding and it’s freezing in here. Numb from an epidural, she won’t stand for five, ten, twelve hours. Her gown itches, hair glued under plastic. Surgical masks were not part of the plan. She wants her midwife, her bathtub, a cheeseburger and a bottle of wine. The head and shoulders are out. She keeps pushing. Fetal expulsion is easy. Thirty seconds. It comes, falls into a pile of excrement that exits her body at the same time. It’s a girl and Naomi names her Mara. A nurse clears her mouth. She wails.