You were livid,
Weren’t you
When God told
You Woman would
Give birth—
Blood burned under the
Flesh of your cheeks,
Your jaw clenched,
Top molar crushed
Into the bottom—
You became the
Throwaway.
You never told her
About the Tree—
Grinned as your teeth
Tore flesh away
From the core.
God knew—
And tossed you out
With her.
You patted her
Swollen belly,
Felt those thumps
As your son kicked,
Saw her eyes widen
With shock,
Heard her breath
Break with the first pain.
You wrapped your arms
Around her, drew her into
Your shelter,
Told her God was like you—
Male—
And she the throwaway.
Ki Russell lives in a yellow house in the Kansas City, Missouri area with her husband, son, dog, two cats, two frogs, and a tank of anonymous fish. Somehow they all manage to live together in relative harmony. If Ki isn’t at home she’s probably at the University of Missouri-Kansas City where she teaches English Composition and serves as the Creative Writing Coordinator of the UMKC Writing Center.