First, my cry, then yours, split the sky
above that Brooklyn hospital
as you, limbs curled and purple
slid out of my body
after a prolonged and irreversible journey.
Pain, then
absence of pain.
The midwife held you up,
newborn body, alive in this world.
You peed an arc of urine
sparkling over the bed
and over her.
The champagne cork popped.
We all drank to life.
You suckled on a nipple.
Your lips still rimmed
with watery blood from that
other life inside.
We lay together, suspended,
holding on to each other.
Tough braid of blue and red
still binding us
cut for the first and last time.
From All Born Perfect, by Carla Drysdale. Published by Kelsay Books. This poem first appeared in the chapbook Inheritance from Finishing Line Press. Republished with permission of the poet.
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