Up to my bloody hips in jellyfish foetuses
respectfully trying not to tread on the dead
of those gone before.
Pushing, pushing to the promised land.
My lungs dare a deep breath–
but these unborn do not stink
for in South Africa
smiling babies are raped and slashed open wide
while we muse at our sterile slabs,
pickling our miscarriages in formaldehyde.
And, at a lucky climax in our meaningless lives,
we get to dress them in esoteric book covers bearing our names
and sir publishing god christens our vanity and our death