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Pregnancy in the Freudian Age
By Ella McCrystle
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Nursing ginger ale and saltines, I swoon
when the doctor makes his house call.
"Doctor, I feel dizzy, faint, nauseous.
I must be pregnant."
He looks at the austere bedroom
and immediately calls a colleague;
they whisper in hushed tones of
"hysteria" and "old maids."
Before long, a group of young bearded
doctors with spectacles appear. I adjust
the ribbon in my hair and fluff myself
on the pillows just so.
As I eyeball the young ones, their mentor
asks about my childhood, bed-wetting,
fantasies concerning my father and probes
for hatred toward my mother.
"No," I answer, "I've none of those problems."
Winking at the blond student in front, I move
my hand toward his, hanging so close
to the edge of my sheet.
"But there has been that bike-messenger Gabriel
with his lovely glow, showing up nightly
delivering scrolls in some strange language
--speaking of virgins and the like."
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Ella McCrystle's 2005 goal is to finally wax
the other leg. She scribbles notes
others call poems and is considering getting serious about it. PEN American
Center Prison Writing Program mentor, editor of The Hiss Quarterly and founder of Write to Heal, Ella
inappropriately breaks into Billie Holiday tunes, talks to the voices in her
head and misplaces things for a living. When not in therapy, she mothers furry
creatures and ponders cheese. If you happen to find her lost virginity or are
interested in more of her writing, please contact her: Invoking the Serpent. (http://thehiss.net)
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