Ten Years, Nine Months

My belly is round

and hard

and empty.

I think about babies

growing inside me,

tiny tummy aches

with bones

and skin

and fingernails.

 

I think about weather,

and whether or not

we will have destroyed the world

in ten years’ time,

and if all of the people,

the bones and skin and fingernails,

will be gone.

 

I think about whether

in ten years’ time

my belly will be growing

or if maybe

the planet will be round

and hard

and empty.


I find that I put too much time and energy into worrying about the future. I’ve never been capable of living in the present. I often think about how the world is going to end. Over coffee with friends, “How old do you want to be when you die?” It’s an icebreaker that isn’t always well-received. I’m not a morbid or pessimistic person — I just have an overactive imagination. This poem happened one night lying down in bed staring at my stomach. I imagined what it would be like to be pregnant. I tried to picture my life 10 years from now, and kept myself awake worrying about whether or not the world will still exist.

Featured image by Sarah Hamilton