Outcome

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.”