No.8 Still Life, With Rabbits

The nursery smells like fresh carpet and wet paint, undercut by the tang of iron. My thighs tremble because the warmth is a gush, not a trickle. I am crumpled on the floor with my back braced against the sticky wall, mirroring the heat between my legs. My swollen belly twists me breathless. 

Escaping into my mural, I enter the woodland forest. It beckons me. Spotted fawns by the creekside, squirrels mid-climb onto white birch, and what I just finished: a fluffle of baby rabbits, snuggled to their mother on a bed of wildflowers. I gave her five healthy babies with rose-petal noses. Not because I am kind, but because I am not cruel.

My womb and I have always been at odds. First, she required hormone therapy to calm the luteal madness. Then, she needed a scalpel to carve out the rampant growth outside her domain. I managed her. I tended to her. I tried to love her. 

And now, the bitch rejects it…again. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t dream of that first indignant cry, lungs full of fluid. A vicious thing—she mimics labor, squeezing and wringing it loose from me. 

Another contraction. My breath hitches, and I swear she smiles this time.

I return to the mural, gazing at those six baby rabbits—I gave her five—on the bed of poppy, yarrow, and indigo. They synchronize their wiggly noses and split lips to their mother’s heartbeat. Another hops into view from behind the birch. 

Seven.

My eyes are unblinking. The mother rabbit grooms the newest baby closest to her. 

Eight. 

Her eyes glisten from the oils of the paint. Her gaze meets mine for a fleeting moment, then she retreats to the bliss of her bounty. Unbothered.

The wall fills with her creation. And I empty of mine.