Romy Morreo
Guilt after an Emergency Caesarian
Shame seizes my chest when I remember
recalling only thirst, returning to consciousness
parched
atop the crispiest mattress on Earth,
no windows, dim lights, time
no longer a linear thing—
reduced to my chalkboard throat,
flesh sucked brittle and gaunt,
rasping experimental vowels at single ply sheets
with a tongue dry as forgotten white wine;
my flaking lips
tore cracks at the corners of my mouth,
while lethargy limited my limbs, bound
inside my paper gown,
I was prostrate at the mercy of protocol:
fluttering nightingales offered water drops
from the tips of their wings—
just a sip, in their benevolent cruelty;
and until I’d rolled that barest moisture
across my palate and along my furred teeth,
I didn’t think to ask
about my deflated belly
or where those home-grown feet were kicking.
Denial
Nothing grows in hostile earth. More salt
than soil, every seed has shrivelled
like my skin recoiling from the sun’s merciless
heat. Still I shovel with grit-blistered
hands until I’m a hundred feet deep
and choking on clumps of dirt-ash-bone
but there’s no life here. Silence
hangs above me, a sword waiting
for another heartbeat to sever its fragile
thread. If I can spit out enough sediment
to scream, will it make a sound?
I try, but with only death to listen,
I never hear an answer.
Romy Morreo (she/they) completed her MA Creative Writing at the University of Chichester. Her poetry has appeared in Transients Magazine and the Dark Poets Club, and she received an Honourable Mention for the Dark Poets Prize 2024. Several pieces of her short fiction have been accepted for publication. Her work frequently explores dark topics and queer themes.