ISSUE 7
Annelise Royles
If and When / My Body is Inhospitable
A friend, once: human blood is at least 60% water.
A doctor, blandly: “if and when” I am pregnant I will inject the tender part of my belly with blood thinners
twice a day to prevent
a life-threatening blockage, quietly: snuggle into my heart, lung(s), or brain.
If / when I fuck a man without a condom if / when I keep the baby I take the blood thinners but absolutely must stop taking them before I bleed out during delivery if / when I breastfeed like a real mom I needle myself again until prescribed non-estrogen birth control to prevent another risky pregnancy if / when my daughter starts her period at eleven I explain that she needs to monitor how much blood she loses each day if / when she asks why I think about my mom’s four miscarriages but instead I tell her that Mamie had endometriosis if / when she asks why I tell her that her aunt also has it if / when she asks for a sibling I say no and withhold that I would likely not survive the pregnancy.
If / when she walks away, I cry.
My blood is her blood: it’s at least 60% water
something else of mine / hers isn’t right.
Annelise Royles is a novice poet from Los Angeles, CA and lives in Baltimore, MD.