Birthing

Posted on 09 November 2009

I read your scar with my fingers
and take crushed ice
into my mouth

from a plastic cup
which has in it
the aroma of coffee.

My breasts are at their fullest
it seems, and more tender;
painful when my gown grazes

my nipples or when you’ve
pinched them softly. You say
how I seem a woman: full,

rounded. That we could sprawl
across this day; languishing in the white
sun of the room, that it could be

hours before he is born
but the nurse rushes in
because the fetal heart monitor

screams. And the doctor flies too
to pierce a hole in the universe.
Water flushes out, and skin and bones.

Someone in blue
sews the stitches but I don’t
feel anything except cool blood or,

urine or iodine splashing
on my inner thigh. The old nurse
cannot unravel our weeping.

They wheel me out.
Our home is a frazzle
of livewires,

explosive mines
disguised as Teddy bears,
blue blankets and tiny, soft socks.


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