The Death of Sweet Memories

My searching infant clutches
Pale, pendulous orbs,
Which distend above and below
His horizon.

Distorted globes, swollen and bloated,
Brimming with thin sticky liquid.
Capped with silken mauve areolas,
They sway languidly above

Folds of mottled flesh
That ring waist, hips, and thighs.
Spider-web etching splays out
Spreading glistening lines of translucent skin.

This petty squalling spawn
Of my get, no longer contained within
A glowing, gleaming half moon, so popular
Among patting hands and cooing women.

Months of gushing adoration
Demand their price,
In bloody pints and fleshy pounds
Exacted from my body.

Now grotesquely swollen,
Burdened by a needy squirming
Offspring. Repulsed by labor
And product, my sweet memories
Of conception crumble into dust.

          SHAWNA WILSON