I have been cramping with the birth struggle.
Now I have new infants, squalling and
sour they all have the same volcanic whine.
I tend them anyway, hush them as they
screech. You look at them, dismally, drearily.
You are proud but sad , conceived as they were
through a surgical gown-gloom.
I wish there was one more inside me, to pull
from the pink, bright me of hearts and harvests.
It would be perfect and smiling, a replica of
you, and me when I am sunset- sheen.
I could hand it to you and
It would say everything golden
that I have left unsaid and unborn.
You could swaddle the best of me.
My hair tied up to show the nape of
my neck, which you love to kiss, when it doesn’t
smell of smoke. The laugh you love to see, but too often do not.
The arch of my shoulders when they are not knotted with anxiety.
My most tender caress of you. I want to translate these thoughts
and deliver them, without even the need for gas and air
through me, to you.