Don't Touch

Being pregnant in summer; you can’t hide that through tentlike, cotton dresses. I thirst for winter, where I can swap threadbare smocks for thick coats. It’s as though someone has put a match to stranger’s eyes; drunken smiles painted on bland faces. I wish for people to pass me by, but they gush, pressing sweaty palms on my taut gut.

‘What are you having?’

‘A baby’, I reply.

‘Some people like a surprise,’ they said, lips upturned.

My husband would spin in his grave if he knew people were touching my belly, sizing me up like some strange fruit from Africa.

Don't Touch

Carly-Jay Metcalfe

Joined December 2007

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Artwork Comments

  • Lisa  Jewell
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  • Carly-Jay Metcalfe
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