Visiting grandchildren are
nothing but bad. This day
started with a wolf attack.
Squeaky demands dimmed
by the walls of muscle
and skin, by the humming of
blood through veins.
His voice rumbles in my
pressed-close ears, a father's
low and reassuring.
It's better to hear him than to see him,
much better.
So much waiting,
like the ticking of a clock,
the growling of a stomach,
and I don't know whether it's mine
or his.
The gentle squeezing of the womb,
the reassuring beating of a constant heart,
until the violence stops it.
They pull me out of my rolled position,
a girl's shaking hand
and a strong man's forceps grip.
A hunter, with red paws
and satisfied grin.
And I'm out, reborn
at the end of my life.
Sticky with birthing fluid,
I'm naked, and the air
around me chills.
© 2005 Amanda L. Caldwell
