Death of a Nihilist [poetry]

17. disambiguate

the woman's nineteenth son was born yesterday,

fair and healthy, so the scale said.

she was smiling, or something like that.

her face long deformed,

only the eyes remained shiny and bright.

but she knew she looked nice, with pride and greed in her sight.

the woman had wrapped her son in the prettiest towel she could find.

the baby wailed on and on, until he was red in the face and short of air in his lungs.

the scrunch of his infant's facial muscles reminded her of her younger self

carrying her first child,

a determined stubbornness written in the furrow of her brows

and a spiteful strength gritted between her teeth.

she didn't hesitate, this time around,

shoving her boy into the doctor's awaiting arms,

her palms outstretched, waiting for the familiar clink of

coins and food stamps, pressing down on her hands.

it was a hard matter,

but she had seen the pictures—the gold, the glitter.

just like his older brothers, this boy would look absolutely divine,

stuffed full and hung upon an armature,

beautiful, next to a magnificent deer's head or a majestic black bear's jaws.

mounted above a king bed or a grand living room.

taxidermy would immortalize her beloved child,

forever preserved and enshrined the product of her flesh and mind.

⸻

disambiguate: to remove the ambiguity from; make unambiguous

prompt: taxidermy