NaPoWriMo 11

At the Moment of My Birth


I felt pressure—
my mother pushing me
out of her world and into the next

and when she tired,
forceps clamped my skull
pulling me through.

The air exploded
over my blood-wet skin.
My body, a cold question

with no answers,
my fingers useless,
my legs good only for kicking

with a mouth
that sang my arrival.
Waterless tears for my blurred eyes.

Patterns of light,
existing only in periphery,
and yes, hands, lots of hands—

fingers up my nose, in my throat,
giving me feet and inches,
my imperfections now a matter of record,

a murmur or a whisper?
Then I was lifted up and placed
on her breast. I felt warm,

maybe loved. I heard my full name
spoken for the first time
and I wanted to claim it.