Mother

By Jason John Bartholomew

I was born from a free, good-time fuck, a cheap way to pass time for down on their luck poor folk. In the heat of the moment thinking maybe, “this might be love”. And even though it‘s not, it’s enough, and it still feels real good.

Does my momma buck and moan as I swim out on my own across the event horizon? Does my daddy own it like a boss, but still kiss her soft after he cums, like a gentleman?

Is it awkward and flushed, her pulling the sheet up over her breasts, reaching for a cigarette? Is he already searching, when his feet hit the floor, for the escape route away from fresh fucked regret? Does he clear his throat? Make a lame joke? Ask for a toke off the cigarette?

I am tumbling down fast by then through nebulas and galaxy dust. I wonder which star I‘m passing when they lean in for that last, civil, soured-spit kiss?

She closes the door and leans against the knob, a towel wrapped around her wet hair, another under her arms. A hiss-n-crack opens a can of coke, a snap-n-hiss lights another cigarette up; breath like smoke like bellows, like uh oh. We’re already pregnant but she doesn’t know. She’s staring out the bedroom window into an empty night feeling hollow.

A blue candle is lit and she shuts the lamp on her maiden days, around about the same time I first start to crest the Milky Way; falling with angels and lightening thru the cold conception contraction as the expansion begins downsizing its self to fit inside a life of suffering. All the way down we fall, thru the seven heavens; I stick the landing with a vein twist cramp in the womb of my fresh milk maiden. Not yet a women full grown is my mum in waiting.

Ensnared in my new flesh cradle, she and me, we fall asleep together; my breath is sharper; hers falls a little softer. Thus begins the habit on this first meet, our ritual we’ll keep for years, nights numbering in thousands: of turning and tossing into each others slumber, entwined in dreams of horizons.

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