The Birth of a Son
It took a little girl
to wipe my forehead
It took a little girl to place
a cold wet cloth
on my face.
A little girl to squeeze my
hand, and reach up, to touch
my face.
It took a little girl to fluff a
tear-drenched pillow
beneath my head.
A little girl who sat patiently
at the edge of a feather bed,
before the screams – before
Papa left between contractions.
Papa peeked through a door-
way – had his child been born?
It took a little girl to heat the towels
and place them beneath by back,
It took a little girl to rub my feet,
and place white porcelain buckets
at the bottom of my bed.
It took a little girl to help me push
and she stared and wrinkled her nose.
A little girl whose eyes were
filled with tears, ran to the window
announcing you were here.
* * *
