The Mum Bell

by Cati Porter

My son picked a Mango from the store today,
mottled red and yellow and orange, rotund like my belly.
I peel the fruit, discard the inedible remainder.
The vibrant flesh inside rings deep, deeply sweet.

The faucet hums as I trip the switch and the teeth
of the disposal chomp, churn. Dug from well within
the fruit, the hull holds embryonic seed of a still-
to-be-born seedling child, possibility still-born.

My son looks deeply into my belly, head cocked in mild agony,
straining to ascertain the function of such a thing:
A ball that is bound to flesh, a globe that does not spin,
an inverted bowl with potential to knock one down.

Later, upon examination of illustrations in a book, he determines
there is a crib within that contains what will become
brother. Whatever I swallow, toys, treats, will go straight
down to him. I eat fruit, he tastes the sweet. I eat meat,

he chews along, gums overtures of hamburger, fried chicken wings.
My son says there is a snake that slithers my spined tree.
It coils rubber around vertebrate spire, threatening
to scrunch me down, spring

stretched taut to near breaking, pulling each year back
into my tailbone, into that appendage of ancient origin threatening
to take me back to animal, to Eve. My son extends
a tentative finger, traces the snake along my spine,

and I stand straight, aware of the pressure of a small finger tip.
Turning to face him, his small hands cup the round of my belly.
Baby humps up to the press of his hand, and I feel all of creation
squirming, the mum bell cupping primal ringing, ringing...