Madeline Summers

The Birth of Aquila

                  I held the small baby, the small yellow
                                    baby hatched in secret,

                  entering at the basement door
                                    I heard
                                    the small cry

Through thatch
Through foam
Through plastic metal concrete the squall

                  My fingers on the door
                  My fingers and another squaw
 
                                    my stomach knew
                                    it was new
 
 

I knocked small scratches
                  of the feline
and mewed
the mother opened to find my
                                    Abyssinian coat.

                  In her eyes a growth
                                    an albumen,
in mine a curiosity
                                    a full garden.

                  we sat in silence
                                    the baby was in a velvet
                                    envelope
I reached in slowly and
                  the tears of the Ishtar

                  The Arimoroan
                                    coat of arms.
                  Protection from
                                                      Columbus Sailing in the amniotic
                                                      vessel through the waters of
                                                                        Guillemot
 

                  The baby was not an eagle
                  something I could not comprehend
within the nomenclature of
                  Eyeren

Hailed now as Aquila!

                  The mother laughed
                  from
                  her
                  belly
 

                                    Her body clean
                                    body
                                    bare
 

                  The Mother-Augustus
                  was laughing and
                      holding
                  the
                  bird

Yolk of Sun!

There are 90 million milk cartons with different fetus faces
from all over the world. This runs contrary to
research on low survival rates of males!
 

The Taiwanese suggest playing the role
                  the stereotypical
                  whore turned executive
always toting fishnet stockings
one pair black
and one pair white

Culturally we prefer to
Terminate the competition.
China has produced only men:a generation of cock
                  The ratio of which makes
                  my womb start chattering in my arms
 
 
The missing women are the runaway teenager
finding a home in the new Madam-Select
 
 

I was young
                  I broke the shell of every egg
I laid
 
 

the women can produce
commodities
no qualitative differentiation is what makes them worth less and /or promised subsidies
the lack of education makes this irrelevant
you can poke in their to the albumen to see if it’s a cunt
                  The girly parts are all slippery
the yellow is on your hands
 

                  if it’s a man it emerges from the stomach
                  if it’s a woman it emerges simply, no fanfare

My first eggs were
yolkless:they were cock
I knew I was a man though I ate marigold leaves in private
I was a chook between my legs and the floor

An increased risk of feminine begins with the
Lemon-Woman drinking honey water
The Savory-Gender-Bias-Man, however, grows up speaking Punjabi
Sexy-Ratios Woman is tanning in the shade of uninhabitable Candyland
                  watching the boys share the rice
 

The day came
my egg the deep orange
 
                  Yolk of Sun!

I used small newly femme fingers to pull the yolk from the albumen
I spread my creation in a thick layer on the laquered floor

I cried yolk
                  The yolk was my hands.
I was the vitelline roundness

Back to Top | Home

Psychic Meatloaf Poetry Journal