Placenta

Abstract

Placenta Rebecca Morton (bio) Mothering describes it as deep red, suckered to the umbilical cord, and pulsing. Some people eat it, I say to my wife, trying to show her the magazine one night in bed. Red dust, red earth, red sky, a wide bright field of red poppies, red tartan sweater my grandmother’s hands mended, apple-red nail polish, three red cars in a row, red raincoats. My daughter’s red raincoat. Like an animal, I say and dogear the map of it. ________ Do you ever wonder what she was like as an infant, a playground mom says as we trot over to our toddlers who are aggressively kicking-up wood chips. I have some ideas, I joke, as I drop to my knees. ________ Horses will. Maiden mares are more likely. Eww, ThoroughbredVT posts on the discussion board when it becomes clear that one of her mares ate the whole thing, and fast. It’s natural, many respond. ________ Use a small, sharp knife. Carefully separate gristle and ligament. Refrigerate. ________ A friend sends me a picture of hers. More bruise- purple, more maroon, than red. Muscle-heavy if I held it in my hands, rivulets of plump veins if I pressed my thumbs in. Slick with thin bright blood, surgical scissors still clipped onto the cord’s end. What are you looking for? She asks. [End Page 86] ________ Sometimes it grows through the uterine wall, grows into uterine muscle, wraps itself around close-by organs. Too attached, Mothering says. ________ Add the tender parts to a simple bone broth and simmer until brown. Dry then crush into dust for capsules. Pickle in a Ball jar. Sauté with butter, onions. Spread thinly onto toast. ________ In Salvador Dalí’s painting, a slight, deep-red- rimmed red pool rests outside the person-egg, a grotesque person-arm clawing out. No, I complain to a friend. It should be purple and with veins. My friend nods. It should be enormous, I say, It’s all wrong. ________ Did the playground mom whipstitch a velvet bag for her lotus birth, the baby attached for five days by blue cord. Did she watch it wither, break. ________ My mother, my aunt, my aunt in her green and yellow ruffed blouse, my cousin at 16, my cousin at 18, my daughter’s birth mom. ________ My daughter’s birth mom holding out a pink- frosted cupcake. Two white-flame candles blurring a toddler’s quiet face. M—, When you returned, I rattled open, my I said, mine I said, but I was wrong: each minute she spent with you was a tethered, pulsing vein. [End Page 87] How can I answer? I am trying to imagine bringing it close. I smooth my palm along my belly, think of the Copper River salmon running now. Filled with translucent-orange roe. I practice opening and closing my mouth. [End Page 88] Rebecca Morton Rebecca Morton’s poetry appears in CALYX, Sugar House Review, RHINO, TriQuarterly, Me Cincinnati Review, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere, and has been featured on Verse Daily. She serves as a poetry reader for Me Adroit Journal, and holds an MFA from Eastern Washington University. Rebecca lives in Chicago with her wife and children. Copyright © 2022 University of Wisconsin Board of Regents