The Birth

The birth isn’t about poetry It is about screaming pain on a Sunday Hailing a cab and head racing To the hospital, now so close to the new apartment I had a baby inside of me But no one expected it to happen so fast Or then at least they said they didn’t Maybe they expected it to happen so fast All along Alone in the waiting room I shook and shook And the blood ran down my legs Later with the magnesium I thought of the many permutations of the bald head Pale, pickling fish skin, glowing with scales When she came out, she was dark and full of hair No blood, but born in the caul Like the other magical realities of my past accomplishments When she came out she cried and it sounded like me But passed me, into her new reality Now 3 weeks later, they say I am still not an erotic object So I wander the park in the snow with my friend We light candles and pray to the darkness We light the park on fire and the police come and find us When they take us to the jail, I say no, it’s not right I am a mother after all They say, but where is your baby And I say, no no, my baby my baby They say, yes yes, look at your beautiful baby I say, I do, I do Look, look, and listen My baby my baby She’s here