Aliens

The first time an alien moved in my body, it flipped like a fish.  There were no butterfly wings, gently fluttering in my womb.  When I rested, it swam; crashing against my belly walls, a salmon trying to jump up a waterfall.  I played tennis and ate well.  I walked tall, slender with a basketball belly carrying my determined, active acrobat.

A few years later, a sloth moved in, sleeping most of the time.  I was tired, listless and large.  Food was revolting; stinking, ugly globs of gross.  Except pizza.  The sloth grew larger and started stretching her long limbs, jabbing me with her pointy knees and elbows.  With the flat of my palm, I pushed back.  She broke out of her prison womb early, anxious to stretch and coo and sleep.

This prose poem was written from the Poetry Mixtape 22 prompt: On Motherhood and Earning It.  Funny thing — I’m posting this on my daughter’s 18th birthday.  She went from uncomfortable sloth to sunshine.  And she still has long limbs.

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5 thoughts on “Aliens

  1. If someone had said to me, “oh, I’m writing a poem about my kids where they’re an alien and a sloth, respectively,” I would have raised an eyebrow. But you’ve done it in such a way to make it endearing and maternal that I wouldn’t expect; it’s sweet, and doubly sweet because it’s unique.

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