Three Poems by Rebecca Bishophall






Editor’s Note: These poems appear in Breaking the Blank, available from Day Eight:



Drag my finger down
their spine then
breathe them in.

The more pages the better;
read until I’m spent.

Her Breath Matters

Rainbow-swirled spheres she
sculpts with breath made of giggles;
laughter floats on wind

She and I fight…still
hugs and kisses before sleep –
a must for good dreams

She still asks me to
lay with her; breath on my neck
helps me fall asleep


It costs me 10 dollars a month
to remain childless,
but recently,
I’ve been wanting to waive that fee;
even though
10 dollars is such a small
price to pay for sanity.

I become baby crazy
when I forget to take my meds –
BC without the BC
and what I sleep on becomes
more than a bed,
it becomes a vessel for wishes unspoken,
because when he gazes into my eyes,
I want him to just be able to tell.
The air is filled
with my hormones
and I’ve taken to wearing pheromones
so when he smells me
he wants to jump my bones
but won’t know why.

This is not a trap.
It’s just that lately
I’m feeling a little past my prime.
In earlier times,
a woman my age
would have had at least four kids
aged two through nine.
I feel behind
and had taken to crying
in my room, door locked,
my mother thought I was dying.
Had to convince her I was fine.

Last week,
I was thrown out of CVS;
not because of a theft,
but because I had rubbed
baby lotion all over my arms
and was smelling myself.
Told the security guard I wanted
to smell fresh
and Zest
wasn’t cutting it.
I went home and downed
an entire week’s worth of
and it worked…
until I went to the park and saw little babies
and slide climbin’.
I just wanted to take five of them
home with me
but that would be a felony.
Need to get back on the BC
before I’m in the penitentiary
serving twenty to life.

I used to think I had to be someone’s wife
before I became a mother.
I don’t feel that way anymore.
All I want to get is that teething ring.
Funny how such a small thing
can bring such happiness.
I’m anxious to be blessed
with one of my own;
until then I take another pill to the dome
and wait.

Rebecca Bishophall has featured at Spit Dat open mic, the Afrocentric Book Expo, and others, and works in member services for a non-profit organization. She graduated from Trinity University in 2006 with a major in Communications. A loving mother who enjoys rainstorms, ramen and romcoms, she can be found writing, reading fiction novels, and singing along to soft rock.

Image by Lars (Lon) Olsson – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0,

Share this


Two Poems by Eric D. Goodman

Dry Splash All these years we’ve been worried about the sea levels rising, when what we should have paid attention to was the fresh water levels falling. Long-forgotten riverbeds...

Three Poems by Juliana Schifferes

Abandoning Reasonskittering propositions declare love a superstition damned to believing itself we choose not to control the burning breakdowns in logic we’ve opened between us Love, Past Continuous there are no forevers for...

Three Prose Poems by Laura Costas

The Bending There are whales in the sky. The last of the day’s sun presses upbrilliant, flat, white bellies; the higher-ups’ downward pressure, astrongly moral...

Recent articles

More like this


Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here