Trying to understand.
Katherine Anne Porter’s “The Grave”…unborn rabbits in their mother;s body, coffin and womb made one. No cradle in between. Was that a better life?
The way Blue Feather had to die with an arrow in his feet.
Mother and Child:
Birth is a push to articulation, an “i” carried to term.
This child in my belly is me, is not me. It is another if from the moment of conception, a part of my body, my cell, my egg is considered ‘not-me’; The father’s sperm leaves his body, the mother’s cell never does. Until it is pushed out, miscarried or born. A woman is taught that this is not her—how many times? And yet the child, is not the child until it is large enough to be seen, a growth on the body [body growths are not wanted now, warts and bulges and saddlebags, they are excesses of self, intrusions from self-space to outer reality, offenses to concepts of limited selves, individual spaces, little cultivated units in a census].