Strange; that those membranes, clots of flesh and delicate filters – fibred and affixed themselves together while I dizzily wandered through gestation – through the bitter-iced winter and the sharp-sunned summer, the curdled damp winter and the amorphous humid-massed summer. Two continents – 9 months – go figure.
So what shall I do with my placenta? No ancestral land (without the impossible human-remain import laws, anyway) in which to bury it . . . it remains solid, irreverently squeezed between the plentifully hoarded meat cuts of my mother’s freezer.
When spring – finally, that misplaced season – arrives . . . let it melt into dark-earthed oblivion, twisting veins collapsing into hard-wire tree roots?
Which roots where?
With which roots shall I share my blood, my viscous, jellied crimson-purple, careful child-holding, vital and disposable -
my anatomy?

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