They always say
“Mom and baby are doing fine!”
just hours after she splits herself open
to pour out bony flesh and writhing soul
with vesuvian indignity,
bodies baptized incarnadine,
lungs wailing, one for the first time
and one like never before,
trembling, sweating, spilling
primordial fluids across existential thresholds.
Mom and baby are neither fine,
shocked by light and loss and brand new fear,
being ripped apart,
pain enough to maybe kill her,
heartbroken now or eighteen years later,
every unknown in the universe
cradled in her naked shaking arms.
Heedless they hurry
to light the cigars
while blood is still drying
exhaling words like blessing and miracle.
I think they mean that forgetting it is.
We were all broken by the beginning.
We should take time.
When I turn thirty-five and feel happy one day,
if my mom is still healthy,
and I’m feeling brave
and the paychecks are steady,
I’ll send out the announcements
on creamy white card stock,
in envelopes stuffed with rose-colored confetti:
“It’s a girl!
66 inches, weight undisclosed.
Mommy and daughter are doing fine.
Today, at least, they’re hanging in there.
As for tomorrow, sorry, no promises.
The doctor declared both of them human.”
