I ask for drugs
to ease the prying open of a cage.
Panting, tongue turned to paper,
I watch your heartbeat jump and dive,
strikes of lightning on the monitor next to the bed.

Your father, his face as pale as the marriage,
presses his ear against the mound,
unplanned this time,
as if he might hear a message from you
worming through my skin.

The lights, too clean, scrub the room bright.
A doctor wears a mask and rubber gloves
so as not to stain your innocence
with years of living.

Contractions river and rush across the abdomen.
Muscles are fingers that force,
push you through the passage,
your black hair matted by blood,
your arms jerking, wild in cold air,
reaching for anything warm to hold onto.



�2006 by Kerri Rochelle