Did her anger linger
in Saturn’s blood stream,
and push itself
out of his arteries
leaving little gasping perforations,
the way lungs expunge
fiberglass ?
I wonder if he felt
more whole
with a belly full
of his baby’s brains,
if he felt the reabsorption
of his 23 chromosomes,
and 23 from Opis.
His mouth,
a void,
a whirlpool,
a black hole
sucking in
children’s limbs.
On the way down,
I bet their little
hands expand, tarantulas
trying to catch
their fall and crawl
back up his throat.
I wonder if baby bones
get stuck
in his gut,
if snippets of hips and spine
slice shortcuts in
the intestine’s labyrinth.
How it must feel
to turn
your son into
bloody excrement,
the anti-thesis
of metamorphosis.
What is that look
in Saturn’s
eyes?
Wide white
discs bright,
horrified by
his own
delight.
–Art by Barbara Florczyk