The Quickening

At twenty weeks I began quickening
My tiny fists balled up
The way they remained for twenty-eight years
My feet kicked uncomfortably
The way they shuffled for twenty-eight years
My quickening developed into violent motion
The way it remained for twenty-eight years
I bobbed left – I ducked right
I jabbed – I poked – I kicked
Not unlike the way I spent the last twenty-eight years

Then the lightning came
It came fast and hard
Leaving a sharp red mark across my face
No angel kisses here
No angel kisses on my fat red cheek
Just a distinct five-fingered red welt
Stinging warm and slightly swollen
I held my cheek in my tiny hand
No wasted tear drops
No wasted tear drops for the non-believers
Only more movement – violent and quick
With one hand up to protect my face
With the other hand swinging wildly

For twenty-eight years I held that stance
For twenty-eight years I was rarely stung again
All of the disbelievers are dead now, or harmless
And now it seems the time has come
To rearrange my stance
To let my nevus heal
As time will have it heal
And time will also have me out
To stop my quickening
To relinquish my violent throne
To cut that umbilical cord
The vile bile feeding cord
To end the twenty-eight year gestation
And to begin my neonatal awakening
And with special care
I might survive
I just might survive


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