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Home hugged you like a glove
while I lay measuring the night
before the birthday we had chosen,
marked on Dr. Martens’ calendar,
phoned in to Lutheran Hospital.
You would be induced.

You had know the world was growing smaller,
when you stopped rib-toeing,
curled head down to wait.

Midmorning Dr. Martens shot a vein pitocin,
waited for the first contraction.
Your world squeezed you, pushed,
punched, squeezed you!
Wave upon wave reshaped the terrain,
while nurses bearing needles and ice chips
monitored my face for pain.
Home sounds and dark let go, exploding
into openness. You inched out, red
and gooey.

In me, you didn’t need a name.
You leave a hollow, go back!
At least slow down, ritard,
hold this finale of our dance!

Ann rushes on.


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