She listened to them call the swelling
Of her pregnancy a bundle, like laundry
Unfolded before washing, to be spun
Around her belly:
A nauseating godliness inserted like a bulb
Into her Eden, an abscess blistering
Its shoots in a sunless synthesis,
Sprouting as their conversation does,
These past-mothers; as if it was them
Who were opening again, and them
Who might flower in agony.
Stug Jordan
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blossom-8/
