by Heather Lanier

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.

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Heather Lanier is the author of two award-winning poetry chapbooks along with the memoir, Raising a Rare Girl, a New York Times Book Review Editors' Choice. Her TED talk has been viewed over two million times. She works as an assistant professor of creative writing at Rowan University.