Passage, Cave-in

and what a rebellion
     to leap into it
          and hold on,
               connecting everything,

the past to the future—

                                   Mary Oliver--"The Hermit Crab"

                 

XVI.

They wouldn’t let me leave

unless I could pass

all the air

left to lay beneath the stitched

x over x of my uterus,

my scabbed belly.

Laxative and water and solid.

Trying to push it out was dangerous,

more than labor.  And like you my boy

it was slow in letting go.

Ultimately, because I was so desperate

to leave,

I lied.  Of course I’m farting.  Absolutely.

Can I go now?

Later I would say

(only to myself because it seemed

so small a consequence)

that I didn’t feel

like I’d given birth

at all—

places that should have been raw

with urgency's rash

were slick as buttermilk.

Clean.  And tight.

And mute.

bed-rails, doorjambs, shower

walls, I forced myself to walk

to cling to

to clean myself

for the ride

to another plastic bed

a room full of sick babies

and you, biggest bruiser.

while the caverns and turns

in your colon went slowly

dark and descended the way a fresh

sheet might, high in the air,

suspended so briefly it's not

even considered flight, there's a slight

wind dying, a kiss with-

out pressure, a trap

of air and bacteria pulling the dead
cells like stones off the wall

and piling them against the way

out.  but nobody knows.  only
your body.  and it's giving nothing.
not even a cry when i change
your dry, again, diaper...