Past Perfect

Past Perfect was accepted for publication by Torquere Press and Clean Sheets. It also appears in Coming Together: With Pride.

* * *

December

A poem I wrote for a December-themed contest on Literotica's Poetry Forum. It bombed there ... with a resounding *thud* Can you identify all of the December events it references?

Hark how the silver celled
slay balls ring
'round the rosy viral garland
white ribbons and yellow massacre
for whom the death tolls

an immaculate concept, imagine
there's no pearled harbor
full of tea or Bulged battle
as a creamed cigar flickers
in the menorah of velvet revolution

impeachy secession, schnapping the chain
reaction of a nuclear bus boycott
while a bull sits no more
and an ear hears naught
the screams over Lockerbie

brothers take flight, wrapped
in the twelve daze of candied caning
one Pole effected, another elected
and a mad monk sunk
in the river of impunity

press passed and Bhopal gassed
amnesty for the civilly warred
and freedom for the civilly whored
frequency spans the waves
wireless words celebrating

the son and the seven
the Sagittarian solstice
and the year's sunset
lest history disremember
December

~ ~ ~

EPPIE Finalists Announced!

WOOT! Phaze in Verse is an EPPIE finalist in the Poetry category. I have half a dozen poems in this collection.

For the complete list of finalists, visit the EPIC site. (If that doesn't work, Emily Veinglory's posted the full list on the EREC blog.) Winners will be announced at EPICon in March. Hope to see you there!

forked

so scream the choices, the choices
made with every breath
drawn
to hold and to having, hide
the depth, the breadth
of forever's façade

so scream the choices, while promises
made on whispered breath
echo heart's desire
to have and to holding, shout
with enough integrity
to love me out loud

~ ~ ~

a poster of this poem is available

~ ~ ~

CANDY!

Work begins today on this collaborative effort ... as does the search for a publisher (ebook & print):

Stripped

A gift I created last Christmas ...

Love Me Out Loud

I don't know where else to put this ...



~ ~ ~

auricle

I once fell in love with the heart of a poet
the systole of his verse
pushing through my mind
like emotional cock

I once desired the heart of a poet
the diastole of my dreams
aching for such devotion
to fill my whole

I once believed in the heart of a poet
until the arrhythmia of truth
revealed that his whispered words
echoed only in my hollow chambers

I now know that the heart of a poet
beating in secret silence
sucks blood hope from my soul
and life from my love

~ ~ ~

This is one of the first stories I ever posted at Literotica. I cringe at all the "to be" verbs, but it's nice to see how I've grown as a writer. ~ Imp

~ ~ ~

Legally Binding

Bruce wasn't quite sure how he had landed in his current predicament. However, he was quite sure he didn't like it. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Sunny, seventy-five degrees, light breeze. On days like today, he was supposed to be sailing on Lake Michigan with his lovely wife. Instead, he was literally shackled to the enormous antique desk in his basement home office – a cuff around his right ankle was connected to a similar cuff around the leg of his desk by a heavy six foot chain. He was captive – which, of course, was Tamara's intent.

There was a formidable stack of work to be done. Work that he'd put off, admittedly, for far too long. Legal briefs to finish. Cases to prepare. Depositions to review. Phone calls to return. Due to the past two weeks of gorgeous spring weather, coming on the heels of a brutal winter, the "to do" list had gotten rather lengthy.

Tamara, who also served as his business manager, was completely fed up with his procrastination. Being the one who answered the phone, she had to deal with all the irate clients. They'd call at all hours of the day and night. She was feeling the pressure, and now she was making sure Bruce felt it as well.

At first, Bruce was pissed. How DARE she? He had considered just watching television all day. Fix her wagon! There was a big screen TV on the other side of the room. However, that plan was quickly dashed when he discovered that Tamara had moved the remote control out of his reach. This was no spontaneous decision! She had apparently thought it through. Bruce's anger slowly morphed into a grudging admiration for his resourceful wife.

Well, nothing to do but buckle down and get busy. Bruce knew that when Tamara got that look in her eyes there was no changing her mind. He'd tried before, and although he believed himself to be extraordinarily persuasive, he'd failed miserably. There were no cracks in her armor! He had no doubt that she really meant it when she said he'd not be freed until the work was finished.

After four solid hours without a break, Bruce realized he was famished! Had he known what was in store, he'd have eaten a heartier breakfast. The coffee and toast were just not tiding him over, and his hunger was making concentration difficult.

As if she'd known just when he'd run out of steam, Tamara appeared with a lunch tray. One wimpy sandwich and a glass of water. Prisoner's rations. She wore shorts and a halter top, hair pulled back in a pony tail. From the grass stains on her knees, Bruce deduced that she'd been working in the garden. (Lawyers are good at that deduction stuff.) Her forehead, cheeks, and shoulders were pink from the sun, and she looked quite fetching. For a moment Bruce forgot his hunger as he admired his wife's curves.

In an instant, she was gone again. Bruce devoured the sandwich and downed the water. It was far from satisfying, but it did take the edge off so that he could once again concentrate on the work at hand. However, before long, he realized he needed a break of a different sort.

Bruce yelled. Waited. Yelled again. Waited. No response. Certainly Tamara wouldn't leave him there to piss in his pants. Would she?

Giving it one more try before he resorted to using the empty water glass, Bruce finally heard Tamara's footsteps on the stairs.

"What is it?" she demanded, sounding less than pleased to be summoned. She had apparently been in the shower, for she was dripping wet and wrapped only in a towel. (Another one of those brilliant lawyerly deductions.)

"I gotta go."

Evidently, she had not considered this development, for her expression softened somewhat and she paused briefly before responding.

"Oh. Um ... okay. I'll get the key, but once you've done your business, it's back to the desk. Promise?"

If anything about their relationship was set in stone, it was that promises were kept. To violate one would be the end of a sacred trust. It was something they'd agreed upon very, very early in their marriage. There was no crossing of fingers behind one's back in this household. No way, Jose.

"Yeah, I promise."

Tamara quickly fetched the key and knelt to release the cuff from his ankle. Of course, when she did so, Bruce got flashed. It was simply not possible to kneel while wearing only a towel and keep one's "assets" covered.

Instantly at attention, Bruce struggled to maintain his composure. He knew that any attempts at intimacy would be flatly denied. Absolutely no diversions would be permitted. There was no mercy in this court.

What was taking so long? Tamara fumbled with the lock, all the while making no move to adjust her towel. She had to realize the effect her exposure would be having. Was she intentionally teasing him? The jury was still out on that one.

Bruce couldn't see her face, so he couldn't be sure – but he didn't think she'd do that to him given that she knew how badly he needed to pee. However, until this morning, he'd have sworn she'd never chain him to his desk either. Oh, she'd threatened to do it many times, but that was just teasing. Or was it? This was a side of Tamara that Bruce had never seen.

After what seemed to be an excruciatingly long time, the cuff finally fell free, and Bruce hurriedly ducked into the lavatory. Not only did he really, really have to go ... but he was also determined not to give Tamara the satisfaction of seeing the effect she'd had on him.

Now, however, Bruce was having trouble calming down enough to pee. Damn it! She'd know why it was taking him so long. She might even be thinking that he was "relieving himself" in another way.

"Are you okay, darling?" came a decidedly wicked voice from the other side of the door. At that point, Bruce deduced (!) that Tamara had indeed "briefed" him ... and had done it exceedingly well.

Bruce tried to think the most unstimulating thoughts ... income taxes, oozing sores, flat tires, and Supreme Court justices. Gradually, his gallant soldier retreated, and he was able to empty his bladder.

Without looking directly at Tamara, Bruce stoically planted himself at the desk and extended his leg to be re-cuffed. Once again, Tamara knelt. Once again, she took her sweet time. Once again, the sleeper was awakened. Damn her! He didn't recall it taking her nearly as long the first time. Of course, the first time she was not wearing only a towel either. Be it ever so humble, that piece of white cotton was causing a time warp.

"Back to work!" she ordered as she rose and sauntered out of the room, paying absolutely no attention to his growing ... um ... predicament.

After contemplating rotting fish, Newt Gingrich, and road kill for the next 15-20 minutes, Bruce was once again able to focus on the work in need of completion. He put in a solid two hours' work before Tamara reappeared. Going over his accomplishments, she seemed rather impressed at the amount of work he'd completed, although she tried not to show it.

"I'm going out for a while," she announced. "Do you need anything before I leave?"

Yeah, Bruce thought, I need you kneeling in that towel again – a "cross examination," if you will. He nearly said it. It was on the tip of his tongue. However, from the look on Tamara's face, he deduced (!) that that would be the wrong thing to say.

Instead, he turned back to his work before his mouth landed him in trouble. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tamara leaving the room. He willed himself not to look. He really, really tried not to watch (okay, ogle) her backside. His will failed him, however, and Bruce's gaze was undeniably resting squarely on Tamara's "closing arguments" when she suddenly turned around.

Bruce quickly looked away, but he knew that Tamara had seen. She always knew when he was watching. Always.

After a short while, Bruce plunged back into his work. The next time he looked up, nearly four hours had passed, and the work was complete. Bruce was exhausted, but exhilarated. And, as if she had somehow known, Bruce heard Tamara's car pulling into the garage.

Waiting, rather impatiently, Bruce listened as she entered the house, put away some groceries, started a load of laundry, emptied the trash, and took another shower.

Finally, he heard her footfalls on the stairs.

"I'm finished," he proudly announced even before she came into view, a big grin on his face.

She turned the corner, carrying a large shopping bag and wearing nothing but a smile, and said, "Oh, no you're not!"

~ ~ ~

Awesome!
10/10/04 by Anonymous
So realistic ... and very funny. How about a sequel, now?

Very.... um, impressive!
10/13/04 by carsonshepherd
Nice job, clever and fun.

nice
10/15/04 by Anonymous in USA
Very nice. It is so pleasant to read a well crafted story in which typos and incorrect grammer do not intefere with the flow of the plot. You also have a delightful light sense of humor. This was just a lot of fun to read.

Legally Bound
11/05/04 by Anonymous in USA
What's next?

a fun little wordplay
06/27/05 by Belegon in Southern California
and the kind of hinting story where we do most of the "work" at the end...which is not always a bad thing *grin

Launch

I'm watching the horizon for hot air balloons. It's the first year since 9-11 that the tiny, municipal airport has allowed the fall festival to launch from its lone ridge-top runway. My house sits atop an adjacent ridge to its north, mountaintop neighbors together greeting the dawn before it dips into the valleys where the mists now rise off the rivers and lakes.

Although no longer glowing with the fluorescence of spring's kiss, the foliage is still fully green. It now carries the dullness that precedes its shift into the autumnal palette: aged yet majestic in the face of its looming death, knowing that it will soon blaze in a spectacular display of dying glory. In a month, six weeks if the temperatures are mild and the winds calm, every branch will be naked and quivering.

I begin to see the arcs of the balloons peek above the trees, their bright colors a preview of the days to come, and I hear the woosh of a couple dozen fires echoing off the surrounding hillsides as they rise. The percussive symphony is rhythmic--yet random--and oddly comforting. It sings to my soul, "Rise!"

immortal

indifference hovers
outside love's window
thirsting for my need
as potential again falls
to restless night

weakened by the weight
of unresolved want
i feel the undeniable lure
of its sweet promise

to care not of todays
hope not for tomorrows
ever free of hunger's ache
in the undead surrender
of a painless peace

~ ~ ~

Phaze in Verse

Poetry has long been a short form method to story telling. Morals, epic tales, even desperate pleas for understanding have been recorded through the ages in verse. And yet, somewhere along the line of our technologically advancing society, it seems those small intimate pleasures are growing lost. Poetry is love, life, and feeling breathed into words. Our shared experiences, emotions, dreams… Today, we are pleased to present to you a fine collection of poetry. This is not just iambic pentameter or rhymed. It is not only free verse or measured. This is a comprehensive collection of a wide variety of tastes, styles, and passions. Just like our readers. There is a little bit of something for everyone.

Available now in both eBook ($5) and print ($10)!

Opus Organum

Posted on the first anniversary of their wedding, this is a poem that Belegon & I created as a gift. (Click to enlarge ... and to listen.)

Secret Santa

Found this little nugget while rummaging around in my bookmarks. It's from a Secret Santa challenge on the Author's Hangout forum at Literotica.




"What the fuck IS it?"

"Nipple clamps, silly!"

"Looks like jumper cables for Junior's Tonka truck."

"It'll be fun. Trust me."

"To connect one of my tits to one of yours?"

"I suppose that's one way to use 'em."

"Or should I connect yours to one another and lead you around by the chain?"

"That's another."

"What's the point?"

"The squeeze is the point."

"Sounds more like a leash to me."

"Okay. If you wanna think of it that way. Down, bitch!"

"Oh, get lost. I'm too old to learn new tricks."

"We'll see about that. Sit!"

"Watch it! I might bite."

"Not if I muzzle you."

"You wouldn't DARE!"

"Try me."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"Damn straight. Now, are you gonna sit or not?"

"Alright already. I'm sitting."

"Roll over."

"Watch it, smart ass, or I'll play dead, too!"

"It won't be the first time."

"Where'd you get this thing, anyway?"

"Online."

"What else did you buy?"

"If you're a good bitch, I'll show you."

"Hey! That pinches."

"Duh."

"Now what? I look ridiculous."

"Perhaps some pictures for our Christmas cards?"

"Yeah, right."

"Hell, I don't know. I've never played with these things before."

"My tits? Of course you have."

"For a bright woman, you can be incredibly dense."

"Oh, bite me."

"Naw. Actually, I think I wanna play with Junior's Tonka truck."

quest

wedged in the crevices of hope
longing for adoration
she throws herself in love's path
as if its proximity can complete
her, blind desperation

craving what others have
she seeks not
to destroy, but to lure
siren song to ego's ears
when… if…
she smells fulfillment

its source irrelevant,
shattered dreams litter
her landscape yet
she does not cede… will
not surrender the hunger

reaching for rainbows, she
goes down
swinging, trying too hard
and failing again to escape
her gravity

~ ~ ~

reading this
08/06/07 by Anonymous
is like many memories. i read it with a nice offbeat beat, and i certainly appreciate that! very good poem, ma'am. good to read you. curt

Poetry Forum
08/06/07 by wildsweetone in ~ New Zealand
i mentioned this submission in the New Poem Review thread in the Poetry Forum. please feel free to come along and join in with other poets. the 50% temperature rating is given so that it does not alter future temperature ratings. - wildsweetone

:)
08/08/07 by Fallenfromgrace
A good read, a great addition to the challenge :)

Nicely done.
08/13/07 by jomar
What Fallenfromgrace and anon said.

Wet Dreaming

[AUTHORS' NOTE: The following is a collaboration between Salvor-Hardon and impressive (a/k/a "Imp"). They've come together to bring you a short he-said/she-said fantasy inspired by a forum avatar. Enjoy!]

~ ~ ~

I'm not a big fan of blind dates, but this one's not really "blind." We've e-known one another for years. Even so, it's astonishing how comfortable we are in one another's physical presence. The laughter is plentiful, and the flirting is so outrageous that with any other companion, I'd be inclined to wonder if he was just joking. With him, though, I know there's desire to back it up—which is just fine with me 'cause I've got my own store of it to reciprocate.

He picked a terrific restaurant. Upscale but not pretentious. Candlelight, sultry music, and long, blood red tablecloths. The atmosphere is almost as seductive as the company. He's wicked smart with a passionate imagination that makes me want to ride him into next week. Plus, he makes me feel like there's no one else in the room. I have his complete attention—and there's nothing hotter than the undivided attention of an intelligent, witty, creative, sexy man. I squirm a bit in my chair, eager to move things along.

Dinner was amazing, and the dessert tastes so incredibly sinful that I am immediately reminded of another oral fixation. I decide to turn things up a notch. I'm not known for my patience, after all.

~ ~ ~

So, we were at dinner, laughing and chatting, having a blast, and flirting like crazy. As the crème brûlée comes out for dessert, she takes a spoonful, looks over it, and says, "Are we just going to talk all night, or do you wanna go fuck?" She then licks the creamy treat in a very naughty, seductive fashion.

"I was thinking you'd start by blowing me under the table, just to really kick it out wild." I'm bluffing. Trying to see how far she will go. After another spoonful of brûlée, she slides under the table. Her hands are on my thighs, and I can feel her pulling the zipper down, pulling my cock out, and slowly, softly kissing its tip, swirling her tongue around the edges before sucking it in completely. Her tongue is firm against the underside, sliding back and forth as she goes up and down, one hand squeezing my balls. She's aggressive, almost hungry, and goes at it with vigor. It's no time at all before I am erupting, and she is sucking, draining it all out.

As she comes back up, licking her lips, she coos, "There. Now your next one should last a bit longer."

"CHECK, PLEASE!"

~ ~ ~

I think I shock him when I call his bluff and slide under the table, but I want to taste him far more than I want the crème brûlée. Seems his attention above the table is mirrored below it, because he's hard before I even get him unzipped. I adore the first taste of a new partner, and I savor him for a moment before taking his cock all the way into my mouth. For a split second, I wish we were in a private place, but then I realize that we have all night. This is just our appetizer, not our dessert.

He's remarkably quiet and still for someone so rock hard. Only the trembling tension in his thighs and an occasional soft gasp reveals how hard he's working to maintain composure. I hear the server return with the bill, and he grunts an acknowledgment.

My absence is noticed, and the server inquires, "Is everything okay with the lady's dessert?"

I seize that opportunity to pull him all the way to the back of my throat and swallow. He can't get any deeper. I hear his spoon drop onto the plate, and I chuckle inwardly.

"Fine," he squeaks, an octave higher than his normal speaking voice. Bringing it down in tone, he adds, "She j-just went to the... head."

"Very well, sir." I catch a hint of amusement in the server's voice. Mere seconds after I hear his footsteps moving away, a hand snakes beneath the tablecloth and grips my hair as crème—not brûlée, but warmed fraîche—fills my mouth.

~ ~ ~

Riding back to the hotel, we make out in the back of the cab, going at each other like teenagers. My hand is up her skirt, fingers rubbing the edges of her lips and teasing just between pussy and ass. We scurry through the lobby to the elevator and start tugging clothes off even as the doors begin closing.

My shirt is barely on my shoulders. Her blouse is held by only two buttons, lace bra exposed, but we don't care. We're kissing and groping and touching all the way down the hall to the door. The clothes come off almost instantly, and I carry her to the bed, tossing her there just before pushing my boxers off.

"Now it's my turn." I kiss her thighs, her mound, and begin eating, licking, teasing her with my mouth. I flick my tongue inside then pull back her hood to suck on her clit, drawing it in and pulling it with my lips, bobbing like she did earlier. Giving a sharp nip with my teeth on just the tip, she cries out. I kiss, lick, and flicker more ardently, feasting on her growing wetness.

~ ~ ~

The taxi ride is a sweet torment, and we restrain ourselves only enough to avoid arrest. We can't wait to get back to the room—our virgin room—our uncharted territory. I want to christen it and infest it with a sexual energy that later occupants will feel for years to come. They'll walk in and sense our pulse. Close their eyes and see his mouth on my sex, drinking me with an unquenchable enthusiasm. Smell the sweat of our fucking. We'll leave behind a raw, primal echo of our consummation.

Those thoughts dance through my mind as we pass through the hotel lobby, pawing at each other, oblivious to observation. My eyes are open, but my sight is obscured by a hunger for penetration. I can still feel his fingers assaulting my pussy, and it throbs for more. We're tugging at each other's clothes before he even gets the key card in the door.

He strips me as I strip him without regard for the preservation of the garments. When he's left in just his boxers, he sweeps me into his arms. I'm momentarily airborne as he deposits me on the bed with a growl. He hesitates only long enough to remove the last of his clothes and then dives between my legs. His tongue is hot and strong, and I feel my orgasm begin to bloom.

~ ~ ~

I wrap my arms around her thighs, holding her still as she begins to writhe. I draw the climax out of her, drinking it in as she cries out. She shivers, trembles, breathlessly moaning for more, and I push two fingers in along the bottom as I return my lips to the button beneath the hood. The second wave washes over her and she bucks upward, grinding against my face. I nip and suck on whatever skin I can catch between my lips.

I let her go, and kiss up her body to her lips, inhaling her breath as she tastes herself on me. The fire is still hot inside her eyes, glowing as I look at her. She rolls on top of me, straddling my hips and grabbing my shaft.

"Yeah, I think you're ready for round two now," she purrs as she lifts up, then slides down over me, slowly rocking back and forth, squeezing her PC muscles as she comes down.

~ ~ ~

As soon as I catch my breath, he crawls up my body and kisses me. The taste of pussy on a man's beard tops the list of my erotic triggers, even if it's my own. The need for more penetration eclipses all else, and I nudge him onto his back. As I climb on top and lower myself onto his delicious cock, I think about enjoying the essence of another woman from his face—about sucking his hot cum from her tits—about her rimming my ass while I ride him. I know just the woman, too. She's flying in from London next week, and I plan to share every raw detail of this experience with her while she licks my pussy.

Soon, though, coherent thought is no longer possible. My body takes over. His thumbs tease my clit, causing me to pick up my pace, to chase my orgasm. I shift from grinding to a more intense up-and-down motion, my thighs burning from the exertion and a sheen of sweat forming across my chest. I hit the burn, the line athletes cross that enables them to exceed physical limits. Adrenaline courses through my body, and I feel like I could ride him all night.

When his hands move to my tits, I come undone. My coordination falters from the additional stimulation, and I lose my rhythm. He flips me over in one smooth motion, never leaving my cunt, and commences fucking me. I try to wrap my arms around him, but he pins them to the bed over my head. I wrap my legs around him in lieu, pulling him into me, kicking his ass with my heels.

We're on a trajectory together, racing toward ecstasy, and he releases my hands to better brace himself, to drive harder and faster. My orgasm grows from deep inside, speeding across nerve endings and setting them on fire. I rake his back with my nails and dig them into his ass as the waves rock me, an unrecognizable voice coming from my mouth.



~ ~ ~

I hold her hips, thumbs rubbing along her mound and moving inward to stroke her clit each time she comes down. She moves harder, faster, less rocking and more pumping, crashing on my hips as she demands more and more. I reach up to capture her breasts in my hands, caressing and squeezing, thumbs brushing over nipples as she bounces wildly on top.

She throws her head, back, growing closer to climax, but then I pull her down on me, her body pressed to mine. I roll us over, pinning her to the bed with her hands above her head. We share deep, hungry, growling kisses, and I bite her throat as I begin my rhythm, slowly at first, sliding in and out, lifting upward on the backstroke to rub her cluster of nerves.

Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me into her, and I increase both force and pace. Neither of us can speak, merely gasping and groaning, words becoming meaningless as our minds reel in passion. She arches her back, teetering on the brink of orgasm once again, and I drive into her as if trying to break a dam to loose a flood of ecstasy. Nails dig into my back. She clutches and scratches and claws to pull me with her, dragging me into the torrent. When she reaches down and grabs my ass, piercing the skin with her nails, I can't hold back. I slam into her, my back, legs, hips arms—my whole body—flexing to push through her as I erupt once more.

We lay still next to each other, breathing heavily and smiling in that glow of fading bliss. I watch her body, the light pink blush that covers her head to toe, the way her breasts move as she breathes, the way she stretches her legs so that I see the muscles moving. One small quick kiss before I roll over and order another bottle of wine.

"We have to keep our fluids up. Getting dehydrated would be a terrible shame."

"And I can do some amazing things with a wine bottle," she winks and pulls me back into the bed.

~ ~ ~

A Place

Not written by, but for, me. I just did the enjambment & graphics. Ya gotta click on it to enlarge it. :)

Printed Poetry

These are available as greeting cards, postcards, and 11x17 posters in my Cafe Press shop:

wither

standing alone on the shore of hope's oasis
watching the pebbles of disappointment
gradually displace its waters
each plunk, perhaps, insignificant
until sheer volume renders
shallow its pull

it no longer matters whether the promise
is half empty or half fool
there's still not enough
hope remaining to quench
a desiccated heart's thirst

the sun draws blood through skin
tenderized by the sting of blown sand
leaving parched dreams
and echoes of passion
waiting in deception's desert for love to rain

~ ~ ~

a poster of this poem is available

~ ~ ~

Beautiful!
06/26/07 by lucky-E-leven in Texas, USA
I loved every word of this poem, but what really got me was the time-travel it took me on ... spanning such a long period of time in a few succinct lines. Very powerful. Very painful and beautiful at the same time.

I'm jealous
07/25/07 by mismused in USA
Beautiful metaphors, lovely construction, heartrending, way too emotional, but compelling. A sweetly written lament of the heart.

13

Thirteen years ago today – at just about this time, too – I was in the recovery room following the emergency c-section delivery of my first child, and I was planning his funeral. I'd just spent two hours in the operating room watching too many doctors scurrying around – cutting me open without regard for how I'd be sewn back together, yanking a big baby from my gut and doing absolutely hideous things to him to get him to just BREATHE.

I held a pillow over my gut as the anesthesia wore off 'cause it felt like my sobs would tear open the incision. Right before they moved me to a room, a wheeled bassinet-thingy passed by and I got to peek at him – buried in tubes and wires. They flew him to the tertiary care NICU across town. A helicopter, just to cross town.

Less than 24 hours later, I convinced the doctors to release me so that I could be with him. "I'll be at another hospital, for Christ's sake!" I screamed at them. They let me go – against their better judgment. They did it because they were certain my son would not survive, and they didn't want to deprive me of the chance to spend some time with him.

I never told anyone how much I bled those first few days. I was afraid they'd make me leave his side. I leaked everywhere: blood from below, tears from above, and milk from my breasts.

I remember the parade of forms – consent forms for various extreme measures: lung surfactants, ECMO, Broviac ... Words no parent should ever have to hear.

I remember how huge he looked compared to all the preemies.

I remember them saying, "Don't get attached. He won't survive to leave the hospital."

I left his side only when forced: when the doctors made rounds, nursing shift changes, and when my husband spelled me for a couple hours so I could shower. During those times, I left a tape recorder there for him – with my voice reading to him. I slept in the rocking chair beside the ... I suppose you'd call it a bed, sorta.

I remember the day I returned after rounds to discover that one of the two ventilators (the "jett puff" one) had been removed and the ugly drainage tube sticking out of his side had been pulled. That was also the day that they told me he wouldn't need the ECMO after all. Extra Corporeal Membrane Oxygenation. In other words, lung bypass. I nearly fainted.

One by one, the IVs came out – but not before he'd blown so many of them that it looked like someone put cigarettes out on his precious skin. They even shaved patches of his thick, dark hair for scalp IVs.

The nurses snuck me food, although eating in the NICU was against the rules. They wheeled in a breast pump every few hours. By the time they started him "on calories" (through an NG tube – oh, 'scuse me, naso-gastric tube for the unscarred), I had over 3 gallons of expressed breast milk waiting in their freezer.

I remember each prognosis – carefully worded pessimism. One particularly callous neurosurgeon said, "It only takes a brain stem to be a baby." One warned, "He'll never even recognize you." (Wanna bet, asshole?)

I remember the hospital social worker pulling me aside to deliver information about institutions: "You can have more children, honey. Place him here. He'll get excellent care. Get on with your life." (As if.)

I remember holding him for the first time – when he was three weeks old – and the entire NICU staff standing around us, crying and applauding.

I remember bringing him home – when he was four weeks old – and, for the first time, nursing him directly from my breasts. (They never did know that I wet my pinkie with breast milk and put it in his mouth at the hospital – while he was "eating" through that damned tube. I wanted him to taste, damn it!)

I remember every damned time he did something that someone said he'd never do.

Ten years later, he was named as one of our community's "most influential citizens."

Today, he became a teenager.