Hazel's Birth
- for Sarah
I am under a crush of ice
a sheet of needles over the water of my body
my hands pressed against it, looking up
at everyone else
looking down at me. Yes,
their hands are pressed to the ice, trying
to hold my own, but they are breathing
air, and I, I am looking for the next
breathing hole, the place where I can rise
and take a mouthful of air.
***
This is day three. I sit in the bed, pushing,
I sit in the bath, pushing, I let
the midwife massage my cervix, pushing.
She breaks my waters, that beautiful pillow
between me and more pain, that cradle for my
daughter’s head that I’ve protected for months
now, and I’m pushing again, willing with every
muscle for the word progress. That’s the only word
that matters now. Not, do it for your baby
(fuck you!), not visualize your baby just
look at me, look at my face, and tell me:
I’m making progress.
***
I feel a warm hand on my face
and there is a doctor,
pushing the hair out of my eyes
with such tenderness. This woman
is here, she is pulling me
from beneath the ice.
Drugs in my spine, an operating table,
a tent to block my body from myself--
the litany of nightmares I have worked
so hard to avoid.
She is taking my hand, pulling me out,
and as I rise, I remember Hazel.
That beautiful name is sweetness,
melting on my tongue, and I swallow
great breaths of air, grateful
to be back in my body.
***
Kiss your daughter says the doctor,
and there she is, bloody, beautiful.
She wipes off a spot
for my lips, but I don’t care
I want to inhale this baby whole,
I press my face
to hers, breathe her in,
beautiful, beautiful.
I touch her hair, thick as the midwife
had promised it was, connecting
that womb life with this person
next to me. Sweet girl, delicious girl.
***
Finally, Hazel. Finally, me.
Floating, for a while, before
I’m flooded with
the what ifs and the if onlys
and everyone else’s
feelings, which just don’t matter.
This is about me, and Hazel,
stepping out of that dark lake,
stepping onto the shore,
and learning how to breathe.
(Published in Literary Mama)
- for Sarah
I am under a crush of ice
a sheet of needles over the water of my body
my hands pressed against it, looking up
at everyone else
looking down at me. Yes,
their hands are pressed to the ice, trying
to hold my own, but they are breathing
air, and I, I am looking for the next
breathing hole, the place where I can rise
and take a mouthful of air.
***
This is day three. I sit in the bed, pushing,
I sit in the bath, pushing, I let
the midwife massage my cervix, pushing.
She breaks my waters, that beautiful pillow
between me and more pain, that cradle for my
daughter’s head that I’ve protected for months
now, and I’m pushing again, willing with every
muscle for the word progress. That’s the only word
that matters now. Not, do it for your baby
(fuck you!), not visualize your baby just
look at me, look at my face, and tell me:
I’m making progress.
***
I feel a warm hand on my face
and there is a doctor,
pushing the hair out of my eyes
with such tenderness. This woman
is here, she is pulling me
from beneath the ice.
Drugs in my spine, an operating table,
a tent to block my body from myself--
the litany of nightmares I have worked
so hard to avoid.
She is taking my hand, pulling me out,
and as I rise, I remember Hazel.
That beautiful name is sweetness,
melting on my tongue, and I swallow
great breaths of air, grateful
to be back in my body.
***
Kiss your daughter says the doctor,
and there she is, bloody, beautiful.
She wipes off a spot
for my lips, but I don’t care
I want to inhale this baby whole,
I press my face
to hers, breathe her in,
beautiful, beautiful.
I touch her hair, thick as the midwife
had promised it was, connecting
that womb life with this person
next to me. Sweet girl, delicious girl.
***
Finally, Hazel. Finally, me.
Floating, for a while, before
I’m flooded with
the what ifs and the if onlys
and everyone else’s
feelings, which just don’t matter.
This is about me, and Hazel,
stepping out of that dark lake,
stepping onto the shore,
and learning how to breathe.
(Published in Literary Mama)