The midwife said,
At some point
In labor, all women
Believe they’ll die.
The terror creeps in.
The heart contracts,
Expels all its hopes
Into the child coming.
Curling her courage,
To speak the fear.
If I die, tell him,
I’d do it again.
Through soul seizure,
And corporal torsion,
Now only the tears
move with grace.
A cry rents the room.
Capitulating, stitching,
Resuscitating her
Wrecked body.
It wasn’t the labor.
It was the battle
To give life-
And yet retain it.
One day, he’ll feel
The same love-terror.
Not for his mother.
But for another.
A mother knows
No expectation
Of receipt. Only
Love paid forward.
