Birth

She labors with her whole being,
her body, division and divinity in motion
as the flesh rolls back,
an open mouth that speaks
the crowning fetus like a first word,
pressing forth the neck and shoulders
that bend and strain,
sleek camel through the needle's eye,
thread of newborn life, licked by God,
pulling forth the narrow waist and tiny buttocks,
the genitals and little legs and feet,
folded at first like petals or prayers.
Then, the way a second thought comes suddenly,
the afterbirth, abandoned tabernacle,
dispelling the last of life in rubbery iridescence,
sliding forth without ceremony,
a salty mystery of the sea, cast ashore,
overshadowed by newborn tears,
while the mother lies staggered,
drunk with love, and blood, and water,
the small wet body held before her,
a mixture of promises and fears.

P.C. Scheponik

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