I have this image of reproduction—of childbirth more specifically. I have this image in its full vulgarity. I see the vaginal walls, the infant’s soft skull and the thin layer of hair coated in a sort of film, and the juices and the placenta and the umbilical cord. The scene, yes, is of organic and sexual facilities, and is, perhaps, something grotesque for vocabulary and mental imagery. I think of the expanding of the woman’s body. I know that noise—that alarming screech, that vocal rite of entrance into movement and gravity and metaphysics. I feel those soft hospital garments, and the warm breast.
I have this image. It’s a clear image. It’s a clear image when my eyes are shut.
My hands are old and my skin is aged. I fall. It hurts. I cannot help myself. I occasionally soil myself because my functionality is neither voluntary nor predictable. I cannot sleep. I cannot stay awake. I cannot cry, but my skin is soft and wrinkled as if I had. I have lost my mane. My teeth are decayed, and, frankly, it is much too painful to eat. At times I desire sexual activity, but I no longer have the means of companionship, nor the physical groundwork. Most times I do not have sexual desire. I’m not hungry, but I’m thin and I ache if I have not had food.
John 3:4
