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Squinting
Against the Light
The
sky sows snow and sleet, though crocuses
poke purple heads through crusty soil.
Above, geese call their way north
spreading awkward V’s into the open sky.
A slowing, a pause, as if you wait -- perhaps
for the sleet to pass, perhaps for tomorrow:
Your clock is not ours, your rhythms your own
until your head breaks the salty waters
and your mother stops, tends to the pressure
of you as she will a hundred hundred times again,
remembering this rush between her legs,
the rush of you, headlong toward the world.
And when your head begins to crown,
one ear, misshapened, protrudes into
my fears, then unfolds
a petal into its own perfection --
Your head enters the doctor’s hands, is turned
then a last contraction squeezes your shoulders
out and you glide into the world
a sea creature, all the pieces in place.
I cradle you in my hands. Your face squints
against the light. Your eyes open, then close again
as your arms and legs flail their first
flailing into the world, against the world. |