LatinosUSA

«The Slaughterhouse» by Smitha Vishwanath

It was the month before Christmas –
I stood bulging, unable to bend double
My stomach, a swollen balloon
blocking me from seeing my legs.
Doctor Massoumeh is a stranger;
mine was away on emergency leave.
She says, ‘We’ll have to induce pain.
You’re past the due date.’
The nurse wheels me in
for the rituals 
before the slaughter:

First, the gown is donned –
open back held together by strings.
Winter’s air bristles my patchy pigmented skin.
‘Lie down,’ she says, ‘Spread your legs.’
I do as I am told – the shearer
enters, brandishing a razor,
to clear the land.
She dabs the area with something cold, something wet-
a sharp, acrid odor fills the room – isopropyl alcohol.
‘Now, turn around,’ she says, her face, a blank slate.
I wince as a tube pushes its way into my insides.

and is then taken out. I am now ready –
to move into the abattoir.
The other lambs are waiting for their turn
behind green curtained enclosures
separated from each other.
Faceless groans and nameless screams
usher me in.  ‘Relax. Lie down,’ the nurse says,
tapping a vein in the crook of my arm. It bulges green
inviting the needle connected to a tube
attached to a pouch hanging on the drip stand.
Drip, drip, drip, I watch each drop begin its journey

from the pouch, down the tube and
into the ocean of my body.
I feel a deep rumble inside, then another-
a volcanic eruption, waiting to spew whatever’s within.
I rush- tube and pole and pouch;
I could have given Hussein Bolt a run for his money.
At ease on the relieving seat, I stay, afraid if I leave
it’ll gush like a tap whose washer has worn-out
Another quake, I’m grateful
for the grey wooden bolted door separating me
and the other inhabitants, and the ceramic pot below me.

There are shocks and after-shocks-
I feel it rock my terrain, it clenches
my insides and tighten its grip inch by inch
wringing my girth, making me cringe in subordination.
My pupils dilate, I writhe in pain, until the tremors stop.
I step out – tube and pouch and pole
and clamber onto the bed, confused.
‘You had a contraction,’ the nurse says, giving it a name.
I feel another of those, they came in quick succession –
one every five minutes
over the next eleven hours! I think I’ll die.

Death may have been kinder. I curse my mother
for not telling me how bad it would be, him,
for doing this to me. I hate them all.
At forty minutes to the stroke of twelve, they say
it’s time – the journey begins –
from the cot to the gurney to the birthing bed.
An acrid smell, white ceiling, lights,
a table with shiny, steel, sharp instruments
sits waiting to feed on flesh. My legs folded at the knees,
tremble. ‘Push!’ the doctor says,
her latex covered hands waiting

With the energy of a prisoner in Auschwitz, I push.
‘Push again,’ she says, like the führer.
I push once more- my life, out of me.
‘Yes, I see it. Again,’ she coaxes.
The nurse urges. ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘Cut it open.
Take it out,’ I plead, dripping sweat. I’m done.
‘Push! You must push,’ voices rattle my ears.
‘Forceps’,  ‘vacuum’, ‘scissors’, ‘tear’, ‘stitch’
words swim in my ears, a lamb’s cry-
feeble at first, then louder.

“Baby is here,’ the doctor’s voice slices the bloody air.
They smile. ’11.45 p.m. Record the time. Weight -3.5 kg.’
In the latex covered hands a tiny alien
covered in reddish slush looks cramped.
‘Dokhtar Ziba,’ * the doctor says, smiling
I gaze, relieved the torture has ended.
They say it’s love at first sight
when a mother sees her baby for the first time
I feel awe- of her tiny toes, her curls,
her pink skin, after they bring her cleaned.
And I feel pride that she’s mine.

But love, that came much, much later,
I remember.
Does that make me a bad mother? I wonder.
I watch her now, grown,
in a blue gown, lying exhausted on the hospital bed,
a question in her eyes, that she’s too scared to ask.
I touch the waves in her hair and answer, ‘It doesn’t.’
‘How did you know?’ she asks,
 turning to the little one dozing in the crib.
‘Because you’re mine,’ I say, caressing her cheek.

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Author’s Bio

Smitha Vishwanath’s poems have been published in the Thieving Magpie, Spillwords Press, MasticadoresUSA, Silverbirch Press, Borderless Journal, Lothlorien Journal, and Rebelle Society. Her poem, ‘Omid’, was nominated ‘Best of the Net’ in 2019. ‘Do you Have Dreams’ and ‘Forgotten’ written for the National Poetry Writing Month challenge hosted by Maureen Thompson won recognition in two consecutive years, 2021 and 2022. Smitha was nominated as Author of the Month by SpillWords Press for her poem ‘Ye Birds on my Windowsill’ in May 2022. She was voted again as Author of the Month for her poem, ‘Two years since you left’ by Spillwords Press, for January and February 2023. Her poem, ‘ Empty Lines’ won her ‘Author of the month’ in 2024. She has also received the Reuel International Prize II (2022) for her poetry during National Poetry Writing Month and was nominated by SpillWords for ‘Author of the Year’ in 2024. Her poem, “Out of Order’ was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2024.

She has co-authored a poetry book, ‘Roads- a journey with verses’ in 2019. Her debut novel, ‘Coming Home’ was released in March 2023 and was awarded the Certificate of Excellence by Asian Literary Society under the ‘Best Debut Fiction’ category in 2024. You can follow her writing on her blog: https://smithavpennings.com

Before her journey in writing, she worked as a banker for 2 decades. She currently resides in Kenya with her husband