womb |
by Jonathan Cooper‏

She lay, half turned,
on white sheets,
her bed in a cone of  
palliative lights.
Drooped with skin, bones
barely occupied
the blue hospital gown
and her head rested
against the palm of her hand.

I’ve always slept like this, she said,
with my face in my hand.
Ever since I was a little girl.

Then she was quiet, her
eyes drifting in circles.
As I watched her I was heavy
in my soft chair, fingers
locked in my lap. I chewed
my lower lip, breathed in,
and at last made an oblation
up into the room—
you know, I said, that makes sense
because that’s probably how you slept
when you were in your mother’s womb.

Originally from the Bay Area, Jonathan Cooper lives in Vancouver, Canada, where he works in the real estate business. His poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in various publications including The New Plains Review, The Statesmen Journal, Radix Magazine, and The Vancouver Sun.