I am the birther,
head flung back
and then staring forward
without a plan
and only the deep contraction of pain
that is also exhultation.
Too long I worried about
what kind of creatures
I was growing,
whether they had what they needed
to suck nourishment
instead of paltry poison,
and what they looked like
in the light.
Too long I worried
that the bleeding was not fresh,
a residue of afterbirths
layering in my womb.
Too long I feared
the debt of caretaking
with all this proliferation,
and even had the gall
to question the parenting
of many I hold dear.
The labour room has space
for all of us,
come lie down
for the rest
between the times you are gripped,
listen to my moans
and I will hear your panting,
know
that we are safe from madness
through our surrender.
“To birth the baby and dwell on the baby at the same time engenders madness.” – Chogyam Trungpa