Poetry

Being pregnant makes you crazy. No, seriously. It is true. It is okay, though, a socially acceptable crazy, as is evidenced by the following poem. I write whenever inspiration strikes and I set out to write a funny poem about the placenta, likening it to Mrs. Baylock, the creepy nanny for Satan’s kid Damien from The Omen. However, I ended up with something quite different in the end. I like it, though. Not totally heinous, unlike some other things I have written lately.

Caretaker,
a Mrs. Baylock,
nanny
to baby's Damien,
protecting at all costs

baby's first friend,
constant companion,
placenta
thin, compliant
non-judgmental
keeping baby company
womb mates
together
safe, warm

silent placenta witnesses
baby's growth,
passes along nutrients,
then steps back
as industrious baby
turns shredded wheat
and chicken sandwiches
into fingers, toes,
a spleen

baby grows
enough to emerge,
fleeing the amniotic cocoon,
then goes on
without placenta

the first of many friends
to be forgotten,
outgrown,
left behind

placenta,
purpose served
slides away into
oblivion


See, I told you. Crazy.