The alien moved within me a twinge of muscle and bone grown perhaps a millimeter, the size of a plum is what the doctor said but i quake with the boom and shake an explosion so sudden, miscarried life. Nauseous, my body turns inside out, sinew and placenta all down my legs an indifferent nurse watches my salty tears idly mixing with your goodbye gore the juicy sweetness, 12 weeks destroyed by the silence of a heart monitor and an empty womb.
Jamie Etheridge is an American writer, mom, journalist, knitter and occasional poet living in Kuwait. She has published poetry in Red River Review, The Potomac Journal, and Unblinking Eye. In Spring 2017, she won the Ink & Paint competition by the Kuwait Poets Society / Artspace for her poem, Epithet. Another poem won Honorable Mention in the Goodreads January 2017 newsletter.
She is obsessed with alligators and crocodiles, hot coffee with soy milk, and spending time with her husband and two daughters. Sbe also enjoys taking photos of camels grazing on the edges of Kuwait’s deserts (but not close ups as camels are smelly and have really long, grotesque tongues.)