gestation of a book

for three years.
three long years…

i’ve been experiencing
morning sickness.
throwing up the words
of my childhood,
into this book.

my swollen hands
can’t hold a pen long enough
to wait for this embryo
of letters to take the form of words.

this lyrical fetus
grows…
but the chapters
drown in water retention.

so i am giving birth to pre-mature poetry…
before the umbilical cord strangles this piece of me.
hoping in an incubator,
truth will develop in the lungs of this poetic child.

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