“When you see a Crime punished, you may be inwardly Pleased; but always show Pity to the Suffering Offender.” G. Washington
Not a little pregnant, but a lot, I mean really
huge, like someone glued a shelf to my belly
and then crammed in as much as it could hold
until I rocked unsteadily, big and bold.
There’s a reason why we protect pregnant women,
and it isn’t just because a new life is beginning,
with all that cuteness about to arrive, no, and not
just because they might lose the baby if hurt or shocked.
Factor those in, sure, but part of it has to be
that most moms can’t do it themselves. At least, not me,
I was pretty sure, as I clutched the fanny pack
that no longer fit around my hips and back
and slung it over one shoulder, on the same side
as the rib I’d cracked four months ago (with the pride
of being tough and macho, carrying paving stones),
the same side as the eye with the stye, and frail bones,
the sprained wrist. Not that the other side was better
with both feet swollen, too large for my cute leather
flats, so crammed into sneakers, and the wrist mirrored
with a sprained ankle I dragged behind me, awkward and tired,
lurching along, belly-first — hop-drag, hop-drag, hop-drag.
I was startled when a breeze went by, lifting my bag,
and trying to slide it past my crooked elbow.
It didn’t work, thank the Lord. I didn’t know
what we would do without that last twenty I’d hid
when my husband lost his job, just in case needed,
and the need was now. Then, when the breeze turned out
to be a wiry guy on a bike that slid past me, the lout
dismounting, and turning back, well, I don’t know
what happened. I guess I lost it, that cocky crow
strutting towards me, confident and easy in his stride,
my brain locked on, “You think I’m a target? You think I’D
MAKE A GOOD TARGET? Just because I’m pregnant and sick
and injured and tired?” The strangest words came past my lips:
“You want to fight for it?” He laughed, and said, “Sure,
I’ll fight you for it.” So, I kept hop-drag walking, fear
and anger blazing together, thinking, “a) this is
the stupidest thing I have ever done in this
life,” and “b) The only part of my body that works
is the one arm, so I get one strike. One, you jerk,
to take you down.” I held one image in my mind,
the heel of my hand smashing his face in and blind,
calculating the angle, force; feeling how I’d
push off my leg, throw weight behind the arm, and guide
it all right through his head. I stared at his eyes,
hoping this was quick. I stared, and stared at his eyes.
Then he stopped looking at mine. He glanced around,
noticed people gathering to watch the bout,
and evidently decided to revise his plan,
slowed down, turned around, went back to bike, and ran
(or the bike equivalent), peddling down the street,
turning once, to see if the crazy big-bellied bitch
was still after him. I was okay with that,
the shrinking ripples of his purple satin jacket.