Wonder Unimpeded

No remnants of boundaries

in the laboring hours.

In a fluid garment of

sweat and blood,

I am life-force unimpeded. 

Quietly I flow and churn,

an equinox of consciousness.  

My mind retreats inward;

a muscular twist

wrings it out again.

Withdrawing, emerging.

Adrift, anchored.  

Dark, light,

Change unimpeded,

Until the wringing grip holds fast,

and I am captive in the stark light,

and there is no shadow for relief,

and I regain my senses

and see my nakedness,

and agony crashes in,

and I despair,

but feel my hand being guided

into the blood, 

into the pain, 

to touch the 

downy head

of my son,

and discover

for the first time

wonder unimpeded. 

© Laura Seale, 2016

Photo by Evan-Amos
from Wikimedia Commons

Tulip

The baby’s name was there,

Right on the tips of their tongues,

Tantalizingly ready to spray into the open air,

And then it was gone,

Not to be revealed, at least not that day.

So we continue to call her Tulip,

And I imagine her face,

Her impossibly tiny hands,

Her outrageously demanding cry,

The wiggly warmth of her newborn body.

For this, and for her name, I will wait.

© Carolyn Brumbaugh

Newborn infant in Nepal
Photo by Krish Dulal
from Wikimedia Commons

Little Messy Beauty

small thing

seed-like feather-waif

intricately spun

like her hand-made ornament

beaded and embroidered 

with richest red hues fading 

into gentle pink glow. 

she works and sews,

and you, small thing, 

inside her take your place. 

tiny fairy spine,

spindly limbs with the suggestion

of itsy hands and feet

reaching out to meet the day. 

and on that day the light is harsh,

and will not meet you nicely,

nor wrap you tightly

as where you now lie

swaddled in the secret place. 

stark, clean light and chilly,

indifferent air bombards and breaks

your sleepy lids.

but though the light and air be cold

i will greet you warmly on your first day

as do the arms of trees 

spring’s sun-debut

and let you wrap your perfect baby-five 

around my world weary one.

even your shriveled nose,

which shrivels smaller 

at each bewildered shriek 

will be a wonder to me,

a twinkly star 

on the sky of your small face.

and when the world darkens on me

and threats loom near,

i will marvel at the glory 

of your seashell feet

and pretty pearl toes,

and begging to be so new again,
I will see that I am still a child

and need but to remember 

the wonder of a web

or a frothy swirl in the sky,

and all will be new again.

welcome, small thing, 

to this so-called stage,

and when you too grow weary,

do as i will do-

look upon beauty 

as I will look on you

and the dark will reside for a minute

to let you catch your breath. 

© Emily Brown, 2014 

Newborn baby
Photo by Bonnie U. Gruenberg
from Wikimedia Commons

A Hand to Hold

A nurse named Jeffrey who smelled of cigarettes, the one who wrapped his arms around me and tucked my face into his stubbly neck as the spike of lidocaine entered my spine, the one who peered nervously into my eyes after the shot of ephedrine jerked me back to consciousness, the one who moved in and out of view as doctors barked and rushed, as I felt the jumbling and tugging of my organs and saw my blood-washed baby girl rising out of me, spinning out and shivering...

That nurse Jeffrey winked at me as I emerged from drug-induced amnesia squeezing his hand. He said, "Everything goes better if you have a hand to hold, right?" Then all the doctors lost their straight faces, laugh lines appeared above their masks, and the room got warmer at my expense. I'll never know just what I did, but now I consciously ask for a hand and I have never been denied. 

© Laura Seale, 2013

Hold My Hand
Photo by Elizabeth Ann Colette
from Wikimedia Commons