On my left I am inert:
a crushing weight which is heavy,
but not too heavy - just right.
It is nearing the time
of my birth so I move
to let them know:
oh, yes, to let them all know
that here is coming a special one -
a one so pure as I.
I push and squeeze
and force her dribbling-gush,
so this is how it is:
this is a getting of freedom
from out her body-round -
I am forced out of her
to breathe, but not yet.
She is warm and comfort and food
and I am eager eager eager to remove.
It is a thump, being born.
I am a heap in someone’s hand,
so small I could fit
perhaps into anyone's life:
but I am sensing a feeling
and crying my disapproval:
she is pushing at me now -
telling me movements from her face:
that I am to go away.
It is cold and lonely in a jar.















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