With the troubles of pregnancy, travel down the desert road of hardships along a miscarriage.
Fiction by Jennifer Greene
Place my chips on unlucky bets.
Never know where this
sly desert road is taking me.
Swinging by from the necks
of bottles and men.
Prick my fingers on the cacti
that I touch, and cut my knees
on the dusty rocks. Rub sand
and salt into the wounds.
Air pregnant with dust and sulphur.
Pass by torrid skies, clouds
like flies, showing no rain,
hovering on the corpse of desert land.
Miscarried metaphors of deserts to
describe what my friend experienced at
fifteen years old.
She couldn’t keep the baby
with a saturated liver.
Womb that cheated her body.
Loss is a single track road,
imagine it snaking down a dry desert, when
someone writes with unfeminine,
insensitive imagery;
cacti, tequila bottles, men.
Chips of an unlucky bet.
Jennifer Greene is a young writer from Scotland, obsessed with Chekov and G.B. Shaw. When she isn't writing she's listening to Bob Dylan, and wants a career of writing.