Every time the nurses remember to update my father’s body weight, on the chart that remains neglected way too often, the number goes down. But when I look at him, it seems as though his body is sinking deeper into the sea of a hospital bed. Its white sheets resembling the foam of angry tides, and my father is the ship holding on for dear life.
I watch him and relive the concept of body autonomy, especially when outside these hospital walls, women across the country (and world) are fighting for the rights to their own bodies. As nurse after nurse handles my father’s body—with as much consent as can possibly be obtained under such circumstances—I think of the number of times women get touched non-consensually. The number of times we’re told we do not own the rights to deciding what we can and cannot do with our bodies.A few months ago I wrote a post titled “Empty Wombman” (http://ladynarrator.blogspot.com/2019/01/empty-womban.html) where I describe what we women, who choose a childless lifestyle, endure. To sum it up, women are only significant when our bodies are affiliated to someone else—a man or a baby. We are merely vessels to house something else, and when I decided to peruse the comments section of all the abortion news articles online, that is precisely the echoing sentiment I found. People berating women who were pro-choice and telling us that these bodies are in fact not ours, but an abode for someone else’s. My father’s face contorts and I feel his discomfort so vividly, but unlike the hands that touched me before, the ones on him are trying to heal him and we pray they do.
Vince Trimboli does a remarkable job bringing the details of her story, the things in between the lines of her history, to life in such hauntingly gorgeous poetry that I couldn’t let go of. I messaged the publisher instantly and said, “This book needs to be selling like wildfire!” I ordered my own copy instantly.I don’t know if it was reading such depth about women’s bodies finally portrayed so truthfully and with the right kind of sardonic tone (when appropriate) by a man or if it was the overall perfection of the poetry, but I was addicted. Maybe I felt like I met an ally at last who was not afraid to put our truths on paper.
If I wanted to highlight the best poems of the book, it would be the entire collection because there was not one that didn’t move me so intensely. Some of the ones I pinpointed (pictured in this post) are Men’s Bodies are Interesting, Field Guide: Interpretation, and the Haiku: Facts About Birth. But again, those aren’t the only good ones. Below is an excerpt that the publisher, Moon Tide Press, highlighted on their site, and the link offers one more poem to enjoy too. To learn more about Vince and order a copy of the book of rabbits, visit https://www.moontidepress.com/copy-of-april-2017.
WHY SHE BIRTHED RABBITS
Perhaps this was her idea of revenge for not being invited to her junior prom. Suitors her age longed for girls who had never woken up, pooled and ready to push. Her night shirts had long been stained with milk, and boys wanted crisp white V-necks, sleeves to roll their pack of cigarettes in, the other exposing their underarm as they reached up, punching the invisible face of their fathers. Perhaps she had been tired of being unnoticed by them. Pitched on picnic benches, knees hugged up to her chin. Was this to escape a life? She had wanted to dance to a slow song. What she wanted was her body to be hers again. Then, maybe she would be hers again. Birthing rabbits is a strange ordeal. No one ever gives you corsages after.
