Delivery (Poetry)

Arriving here, a special offer
I can’t recall I sent for,
it squeezed through anyway —
blood-wrapped, pink strings tangled,
labelled premature.

I wasn’t nearly ready
when my belly heaved and spilt
its hot transmission fluid,
resentful at the bulging sac
for letting go —
that mess upon my mat.

I wasn’t sure this child was meant for me —
they could have sourced my womb from anywhere —
picked nameless eggs at random
from Nature’s data base.
Some perverse prize draw —
that’s where babies come from,
it’s a fact.

No guarantee of satisfaction.
Complete, without instructions —
nowhere to post it back.