October 14, 2009

On The Day You Were Born

The sunlight was thick.
We stood at the hospital window and observed
long tables covered in paper tablecloths set out below.
Nurses in striped scrubs picked their nails while waiting
for fried chicken. Behind them a man led a black horse
out of a trailer. You were getting hotter.

I leaned against a wall covered in white paint.
I leaned against a rail that ran the length of the hospital hall.
I leaned against a Coke machine and felt the hum in my cheek.
I leaned against your father and he did not fall down.
I leaned against a pillar in the cafeteria.

While they strapped the monitor to my belly I ate
a bite of white bread soaked in gravy. I drank
orange Gatorade from a white styrofoam cup. Meanwhile
the monitor wrote your heart down onto paper.

Behind the black horse was corn and behind the corn
was wild grass and behind the wild grass was a windmill
and behind the windmill were dorms on a hillside.

Meanwhile you were dreaming of juniper berries and a man
with a billy club. Webbing stretched from under his arms
to the sides of his ribs. A sweet phosphorescent glow
prickled his veins and he smelled like just
browned meringue. Would you like to stay?

My thighs opened wide, pantomiming galaxies.
Your soul crashed into the air.