from the Greek γηράσκω, gerasko, "I grow old" and φόβος, phobos, "fear"
~Priscilla W. Johnston, Perspectives on Aging, 1982. 239-241.
I am swelling with the work of it,
this monster growing, pushing
against my walls, stealing space
from my lungs, guts, sucking blood,
gnawing ligaments and bones.
The monster’s voice groans.
I hear it deep inside. No monster,
I know, but an old woman, singing
her graveled grief. Teeth gritting,
I clamp down around her, try
to expel what I have been taught
to hate. She is pushing her feet
against my diaphragm for leverage.
I am stretching wide to release her,
turning inside out like a peeled glove
as she slowly emerges, fully grown.
Why can I think of no name in our myths
or literature to give her. Even wise
Hecate is depicted young and firm.
If you know, sister, whisper it
in my ear. Hold my hands, midwife,
look me in the eye. Name me.
