Still Life without Wind or Amoeba by A. Prevett
It’s noon on a Thursday and my blood is trampolining.
That’s not true.
It’s eleven at night on a Saturday.
I’ve just opened a beer, squeezed some lime into it.
Already now it’s three-thirty on a Tuesday.
Nothing feels as urgent as it ought.
Not the candle on the edge of the sill. Not
the rapidly melting polar glaciers.
Not reasonable gun control. Even my body lies dormant
as an arctic ground squirrel. Heart thumping
twelve times per day. Core temperature
three degrees below freezing.
It’s not that I want to give birth, just that I wish
I’d been given the tools for it.
Your wish is more afraid of you
than you are. An arctic squirrel—
its heart doesn’t beat like that.
Or it could. But I’m not a scientist.
I can’t even touch my toes
if I reach for them from a seated position,
legs huddled together, everything flat on the floor.
Your wish—the wind, maybe. What I would give
for an iota of quiet. An amoeba of quite.
If I could create spells, mine would go
Bam Bam Begonia
and then everything would be so hush.
Especially my womb because it does not exist.
Here is a real truth: centipedes
make excellent mothers. They take meticulous care
of their eggs, stay with the hatchlings for days
after birth. Even a centipede can mother.
Even a centipede. How could I
ever expect to be a home for anyone,
be any fertile ground for something good?
I’d stay with my silence
for days after birth.
