If you haven’t read all the previous parts or you don’t remember them well, I urge you to read this short story (or novella) from the beginning (link here).
After my pregnant lawyer quit smoking,
Her poised persona devolved
Into furrowed brows, clenched jaws,
Shifting in her seat, pacing aimlessly.
To keep her mouth busy, she snacked constantly
On nuts and seeds like almonds and walnuts,
That she seasoned with soliloquies
About her research into dietary changes
Which would maximize fetal health.
She increased her intake of kale and spinach,
Chock-full of folates, nutrients for a growing brain.
She switched to whole grains rich in B vitamins,
And integrated more milk, yogurt, and cheese,
Hoping that one day, out of her would emerge a baby,
Instead of some godforsaken abomination.
Together we researched cribs and strollers.
She shelved her popular novels and self-help books
For guides on babies’ developmental stages,
Creating a nurturing home for a child,
And balancing motherhood with a career.
As if bracing for a shadow boxer’s pounce
From the corners of her mind to sucker-punch her,
She swung words at phantoms, often striking me.
During legal arguments, she found her wit blunted,
Her sentences faltering, her thoughts scattering,
And she suspected that those colleagues of hers
As useful as shadows in a blackout
Gossiped about her incompetence.
When one dared to rib her, she snarled
Like a cornered junkyard dog.
Until now a lawyer focused on her career,
She pondered reducing hours or working remotely
To dedicate more energy to our awaited baby.
The lawyer and I indebted ourselves
To a bank, my parents, and my in-laws
To buy a second-hand, two-bedroom apartment
On a fifth floor, with built-in wardrobes,
Electric heating, and an American-style kitchen;
Located in San Pedro Street, beside the Bidasoa River,
Near the primary school you and I had attended.
The largest bedroom bloomed into a nursery
Equipped with a crib of white wood;
A mobile adorned with stars; a changing table;
Wall stickers of lions, monkeys, giraffes, elephants;
A sturdy, comfortable rocking chair;
And set on a nightstand, a lamp with a dimmer.
Inside the master bedroom,
In a corner of the wardrobe,
I tucked the moving box
Housing my keepsakes of you.
The hems of my row of shirts
Draped over the lid as if caressing it.
In that confined darkness,
Your figurines, my comic strips,
Your motorcycle gloves
And handwritten letters,
The tapes with our pretend shows,
Photos that had captured you,
All aged second by second
While you remained eighteen.
Evenings lost in the glow of dramas,
Lying on the couch watching TV
With our legs and fingers entwined.
The heat emanating off her curvy body.
The scent of freshly-brewed tea.
Shelves of books and DVDs,
Framed motivational quotes.
The lunar landscape of my existence
Had become inhabited.
Her cravings escalated to chips, doughnuts,
Potato omelets, ice cream, fried pork meatballs,
And whatever she could munch or suck on,
From candies and energy bars to popsicles.
She gained weight, her breasts swelled.
I made myself useful by rubbing her feet
And massaging away the aches from her joints
While she, amidst balled-up snack wrappers,
Pored over childcare books, flipping pages
With her cigarette-deprived fingers.
She zigzagged along an agonizing route:
Aversions, headaches, insomnia,
Nausea, vomiting, constipation,
Anxious gynecological appointments,
Prenatal yoga, birthing classes,
Nightmares of miscarriages and stillbirths,
Of episiotomies, hemorrhages, C-sections,
Of premature infants hooked to machines.
At night, she clutched her belly,
Fearing the budding life inside
Would twist and strangle itself.
Whenever I failed to intuit her needs,
She snapped at me, and slammed doors.
At times, exhausted, loathing herself,
She sobbed inconsolably,
And repeated that she had botched her career.
Sprawled across the bed, backaches gripping her
Thanks to the demon’s growing weight, she cried,
“Why the fuck did I need a goddamn baby?!”
The echo of “Fly Me to the Moon” playing elsewhere
Resonated in the sepulchral bedchamber.
Dust motes danced in the beams of evening sunlight
Spilling through windows stained by time.
The light gilded an ornate, full-length frame
Adorned with carvings of wildflowers,
That encased a scratched and scuffed mirror
Whose bottom third was marred
By a dried-out splatter resembling rust.
Within that glass portal, you, my Izar,
Wore a dress with a pleated bodice,
Dyed like the blush of summer dawn.
Your caramel locks cascaded in gentle waves,
Framing your twinkling eyes and buoyant smile,
Both alight with recognition.
Through the mirror, you strode into the room.
As you padded barefoot towards a vast bed,
You made your dress glide over your head,
Leaving the fabric to flutter downward.
You rolled onto the plush duvet, lay supine,
And illuminated your face with a playful grin,
Showcasing those crooked front teeth.
Your satin, coral-pink panties glimmered
As you eased them down your thighs.
“Fly me to the moon,” you asked.
I awoke to faint snoring,
To a naked, round-bellied woman
Whose swollen breasts heaved against me
In the warmth of the night.
Before you vanished once again,
I shut my eyes tight
And gathered the dream’s fragments
As I fondled my partner to her senses.
Our breaths mingled,
Her ballooned belly brushed my abdomen.
My hardness delved into the silky folds,
Becoming engulfed in your warm currents.
I pictured you bouncing on me,
Your caramel waves bobbing,
Your breasts shuddering.
Light and shadow played across your torso,
Accentuating the ridges of your ribs
And the grooves of your abdominal muscles
Under smooth, taut skin sheened with sweat.
The outline of your pelvic bones emerged
With each rock-and-roll of your hips.
Your thighs trembled,
Your fervent moans grew ragged.
My hands clenched the bedsheets
And her nails dug into my back
As I thrust desperately,
Escalating the slaps of colliding flesh,
Until I released all that hurt and sorrow
Into the cushioning waters.
Under the moist bed linens,
Your figure merged with the lawyer’s,
Who nestled against my side
While the fetus’ kicks nudged me.
She loved me with an infant on the way;
It should have been enough
To hang onto and live for.
On a rainy Sunday morning,
A gush of clear fluid soaked the mattress.
The woman grimaced and cursed
As she clutched her belly like a wound.
Labor pains, hours of pushing,
Sweat and tears mixed in her eyelashes,
Her crushing grip bruising my fingers,
Tearing of flesh, blood loss,
Insults flung at me for knocking her up,
Feral screams and utter helplessness.
Ripped out of the womb with forceps,
Emerging into the harsh fluorescence,
Coated in blood and amniotic fluid,
Arrived a screeching, blue-tinged thing,
A sea creature destined to die ashore.
While our newborn’s wrinkled limbs jerked
And his scrunched, purple face twitched
As he protested against the indignity of birth,
The obstetrician cut and clipped his umbilical cord.
A nurse, efficient like a conveyor worker,
Suctioned the mucus from the baby’s nose,
Rubbed his skin with a towel to cleanse him of gore,
Then placed him in my partner’s trembling arms.
Weeping, shell-shocked, she gasped,
“Oh god, I’m his mother.”
Lying in a plastic bassinet, swaddled in a blanket,
My rosy-skinned, plump-cheeked firstborn fussed,
His miniature fists protruding from the binding.
My fingers brushed the silky tuft of black hair
That crowned his defenseless head.
Over the years, the clay mold of his body
Would take on the contours of the boy,
Then the man he would become,
Perhaps one who, despite life’s challenges,
Would never falter, never give up,
Who would pursue his dreams,
And remain free of sorrow.
On an October weekend, at Irún’s city hall,
The lawyer and I signed documents
Affirming our legal partnership.
While my mother-in-law held her grandson,
And my parents pretended you had never existed,
I posed for wedding photos alongside my wife
In a dimly-lit corner of the registry office,
Standing theatrically still.
I wore a well-fitted charcoal-gray suit;
My bride, a sleeveless ivory gown
Dappled with flower embroidery.
I had shoved my hands in my pockets;
She, solemn and lost in thought,
Clutched a bouquet of red roses.
My sunken eyes bore a piercing gaze
That stared past the confines of the photo
At someplace distant and unreachable.
Starting my own family, getting married,
Both promised a rebirth,
But even now, remembering that ceremony
Fills me with sorrow for her, and for this life
That carelessly tossed us together.
As a girl, my wife must have fantasized
About her special day, about prince charming.
Instead, she ended up bound to a wreck
Whose cracks oozed tar,
Who dreaded to look beside him at his bride
In case a dead teenager gazed back.
Author’s note: today’s songs are “This Is How It Always Starts” by Grandaddy, and “Only in Dreams” by Weezer.
If you enjoy my free verse poetry, I have three books worth of it yet to be self-published. Check it out.
The Domains of the Emperor Owl 
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