Yesterday, I looked at the line between fetus and tumor,
the point at which two definitions of life argue over
jurisdiction. A membranous mass poked out of the
pink mouth between her two thighs. The only sign
of what she claimed 31 weeks of stomach stretching
had produced was her cringe when a latex wrapped
palm pressed against formless rock inside her womb.
Oxytocin injected through a silver needle into her leg
muscle swam through her blood and squeezed her uterus.
She whimpered—the dilute whine of futile contractions.
The nurse walked out—“There is no rush, it will come.”
She moaned and something lumpy plopped out of her
and onto the floor. She crocked her resistant head up
to see what her womb had abandoned. It was maroon
and gray, a blob of membrane, opaque and unremarkable,
attached to withered placenta flesh. I shined my flashlight
down and saw two feet, together smaller than my palm,
pressed against the amnion. There was no face, but there
was hair. For the sake of the tiny toes and contorted legs,
I scooped it up in my off-white gloves that separated
human life from the stench of death and rotten blood
and laid it down in a blue plastic tray. The Mama knew
how it happened—a voodoo curse,a zombie snatched
her baby’s face, sucked it cold,and replaced it with death’s skin.
