the midwife is dead.

my mind pregnant
with Berlin, with Normandy, with
decades from decades ago.
if i could push.
if i could heave and scream
and push these stale stale stale
milestones out.
my rebirth; raw and bloody.
my life cord torn, independent of the past;
in-dependent of the stale stale stale
nutrients of yesterday.

vitamins.

it stings it stings, like ice if ice could burn.
the blood flood leaves the body weak.
if this was a finger pricked or a toe cut, i might stand.
but i crumple.its a vein!its an artery!cut like an apple;
bright red and fresh.

the body lies sleepless and stale.

medicate medicate.

this is a fever.
sweat like tiny ants
crawl down the spine.time chokes.
this is no fever in passing.or is it?
oh from fever to haemorrhage it passes.
i am unsure.
blood blood everywhere.
blood in my hair, blood in the air.
i am unsure but not unaware.
"Coward coward, you must move forward!"
but do i care?
i could sleep here, hiding beneath my thick
blanket of words.these words,
the womb to my feeble foetus.
i will spend a lifetime here,
i will be my own doctor.