softly beating rain,
on that ordinary October day –
sitting with my son, knitting mittens
for the unseen hands.
chopping veg, resting on the counter’s edge –
breathing deeply into the darkness when called.
hips circling to the unseen rhythm of bud to bloom dilation
with “a new perspective” on looping rotation.
broken baby waters-arching-crowning rushed;
tinted birthing waters…lamplit room…hushed.
this fresh, still flesh linked son
nestled in my arm’s nook
his eyes wide, wise, mesmerised,
as I scooped the waters over him.
squat bodied, flappy footed,
the shape of him spilled his secret;
the curve of his eyes revealed
the unseen hidden extra;
three copies, not two
on number twenty-one.
and I drank him in,
this unexpected delight.
no primal screams, no broken dreams;
nothing to grieve, nothing to mourn
after forty weeks growing this unknown –
no fantasy baby incubating in my head.
the mother love
the father love
the sister love
the brother love
in the still hushed room,
we embraced our new kin.