IVF as Ritual Sacrifice
by Jerrod Laber
Fires burn across whole forests
and darken the glare of the evening sun.
Her parents each take a corner of the room—
the numbers of living and dead present
in the house must be equal.
The neighbors gather outside the windows,
but turn their faces away.
She stands naked, feet together
and arms outstretched, taking the form
of the crucified Christ.
A bird rests on her left breast.
I cleanse the tops of the vials
and fill the syringe with the air
of her breath before expelling
it into their glass casings, mixing the potions
and preparing the needle. I paint her belly
with the indigos and purples of impending dusk.
Then I pinch the colors and pierce her skin—
the bird on her breast sings its ancient song
of fertility. I pull down the zippered scar
on her chest to expose her beating heart.
The neighbors turn around to see.
Day one is complete.
Eleven more to go.
and darken the glare of the evening sun.
Her parents each take a corner of the room—
the numbers of living and dead present
in the house must be equal.
The neighbors gather outside the windows,
but turn their faces away.
She stands naked, feet together
and arms outstretched, taking the form
of the crucified Christ.
A bird rests on her left breast.
I cleanse the tops of the vials
and fill the syringe with the air
of her breath before expelling
it into their glass casings, mixing the potions
and preparing the needle. I paint her belly
with the indigos and purples of impending dusk.
Then I pinch the colors and pierce her skin—
the bird on her breast sings its ancient song
of fertility. I pull down the zippered scar
on her chest to expose her beating heart.
The neighbors turn around to see.
Day one is complete.
Eleven more to go.
Jerrod Laber is an Appalachian poet and writer. His work has been published in Door is a Jar Magazine, the Oxford Review of Books, The Westchester Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Virginia with his wife and their dog.
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