1926, DES MOINES

On the eve of my birthday, a woman,

Forgetting who she was, cast forth

A child, a boy, more like a seventh rib,

A bone, than flesh and blood, enough

Like me to be my brother, enough like me

To be another son of man, caught for hours

By the head between her hips' slipped

Position, he was blue in the face when

Forceps pulled him out, unwilling. What

Could he do, when the air smashed his lungs,

But scream. The doctor bathed his clogged eyes

Until tears fell and then laid him aside the woman,

My mother, who gave him suck, comfort,

Trust, and all the warmth he had had inside

Her body. Imagine that. Imagine that.