Incubator
By Bethany Bruno
You were twenty-four
when your brain went silent.
No dreams.
No waking.
But still they kept you warm
beneath the weight of wires,
your skin bathed in fluorescent blue,
your breath machine-fed.
Not for you.
For the small, curled possibility inside.
They called it life,
but what they meant was labor.
They turned your body
into a hushed room
without windows,
without voice.
A vessel.
A holding cell.
Your name was Adriana.
Say it aloud.
Adriana Smith.
Not “the mother.”
Not “the miracle.”
Not “the body.”
A woman.
A daughter.
Gone.
One pound, they said.
A child barely bigger than a fist,
lungs like damp paper,
skin still translucent.
And yet they carved her out of you
as if hope could be harvested
from a still-warm grave.
Only a flatline,
a hum in the room,
the smell of bleach and latex
masking what was taken.
This is what they do.
They drape it in reverence.
Call it holy.
But watch how they hollow you.
Make a mother
from a body
already gone,
then dress it up
as a gift.
To the women watching,
this is the cost.
They are counting your worth
in ounces,
in gestational time,
in how long your heart can be coaxed to beat
after you have stopped being.
Stay alive long enough
and you, too,
can be used.
Bethany Bruno is a Floridian author whose writing echoes the language, history, and quiet beauty of her home state. Born in Hollywood and raised in Port St. Lucie, she earned a BA in English from Flagler College and an MA from the University of North Florida. Her work has been featured in over sixty literary journals and magazines, including The Sun, The MacGuffin, and The Louisville Review. When she’s not writing or chasing down forgotten corners of history, Bethany enjoys laughter-filled moments with her husband and silly daughters. Visit www.bethanybrunowriter.com for more.
Photo of a baby incubator created by Tampa Joey via a Creative Commons license.
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