There’s no popcorn for this movie,
no artful angles or Hitchcockian symbols—
the light fixtures show no likeness to boobs.
The boobs are boobs, splayed like sand-
filled socks over her belly, and a head, a head
is caught between her thighs, awaiting
the incredible task of the shoulders next,
and you who signed up for this can look
no more. The stack of blue birthing balls
condemn your averted gaze. What kind of mother
can’t watch one being made?
The camera stays faithful to the half-born
babe, at the point of no return but not turning
sideways so he can slip out. All things in due
time, says the nurse, and, He’s not breathing
but that’s okay, because he’s still got the cord.
No need to pry with metal a flower’s
unfolding. You get it. You’ve read the Tao
Teh Ching, love a good float in a pool,
but not today. You’re the panicked director
commanding hands—a doctor’s? a baker’s? —
to enter stage right and yank the baby out,
bring him into this world, this ornery,
full, fiery, seething, impatient,
oxygenated, awful, odd
beautiful world. Get him crying.
