Semira Davis

Semira Davis is a writer whose work appears in Landfall, Takahe, Ika, Blackmail Press, Poetry New Zealand Yearbook, Scum, and Phantom Billstickers Café Reader. She is a mentee in the NZSA Mentorship Programme 2019, where she is completing a collection of poetry.

 

 


I fear

that she is eels
that she is weasels

that I have worms and they’ll crawl out my butt and up my vagina and eat the baby
that when I have the scan there’ll be no baby
that there’ll be a giant worm

that I’ll wake up in blood
in blood
in miscarriage miscarriage miscarriage
that she’ll be stillborn
that she’ll be damaged on the way out
that her brain injury will be my fault

that she won’t have limbs

that I’ll die in birth
that she’ll die in birth
that we’ll die in birth

that she’ll be ugly

that I won’t love her

that I won’t love her
that you won’t love her
that you won’t love me
that I’ll be alone
that I’ll want to leave

that the piece of soft cheese I ate will deform her

that we’ll lose the baby
that I’ll lose the baby
that I’ll lose the baby
that I’ll lose you
that you’ll lose me

that everyone will storm into the birth

that she’ll be sick and covered in wires

that I won’t be able to breastfeed

that even once the baby is out I’ll spend every moment afraid to lose her
that all she’ll know growing up is my fear

that I’ll be a bad mother
that I’ll leave
  like my mother
  like your mother

 

Trainwreck

 

I stood pregnant in the rain next to the train tracks at the bottom of the hill and watched drops

bounce off shiny tops, gush down tarnished edges, to make pools among the rocks



I stood there crying because the bed is under the window and the cold air will kill the baby

and I’m pregnant so shouldn’t be trusted around trains



In summer Michelle told me of her friend who lay on the tracks around a blind corner

with her driver’s licence in hand and a baby in her belly, of how she got the call



I stared at the tracks until a train sped past and I gasped as if resurfacing from a baptism, my

hair blown around my neck like rope



I pictured my body lying there; the phone call my dad would get. I thought of whether the

baby would feel it; whether you would feel it.



I looked down at the phone in my hand, at my thumb hovering over the green square under

Michelle’s number. But didn’t want her to know what I was thinking