a child – small and wild –
studies me
from over the crook
of her mother’s arm
in a dingy waiting room –
yellow and stale –
of county hospital,
her nose stuffed with snot;
her mother’s all she’s got
large industrial clocks,
their faces cracked and grimy,
tick the time
from behind their wire cages
to the beat of the cop
whose job is to scrape
the bodies from the tar
and bring them in
from the city outside
to finish dying.
another child –
mine –
you –
kicks in my belly,
dancing the dance
of one desperate to breathe.
i rub his cocoon,
your cocoon,
“soon, baby, soon,”
and strain to hear the nurse call my name.
the child still stares.
the clock still ticks.
the cop brings the bodies
while my baby still kicks
desperate to breathe…
you push
i push
we push.
swoosh!
i swoon
from your cocoon
gush the waters of life,
and, while i know it’s impossible,
i hear my baby scream;
your scream comes from my mouth
and i fall to the floor,
welcoming the cool linoleum
on my hot cheek.
i remember her eyes,
cool and blue,
as she calms me with a hush
and the push of sedative
into the i.v….
i clasp onto a fast-moving train
to sleep,
to birth,
to wake
to you.
you are pink and plump.
you grasp my finger.
i now know love.
you are all I have
i will never know peace again.
