Eras ago, giving birth was
woman becoming woman
on all fours, fistfuls of dirt and
diving into the loam face first,
beneath the bones of the earth
into marrow for the feast
of clay and ashes.
Now, any outsider might see:
the pregnant woman as hockey goalie,
legs elevated, nonchalant and naked,
but here is a skein, on her ankle to the dirt
where women still sink under,
the clay is warm, the feast awaits,
the doctor’s voice is a raven
arguing against a dream.
The baby’s head a ripe peach,
the cervix melts like ice cream,
a mouthful of salt for every push
to the surface.
Life claims life for its own.
Once the baby is out,
once the placenta is coaxed,
once the tears repaired,
baby skin to mother skin,
what will survive is
this mystery, of how women
can breathe in the dirt,
live in the grit and not say
a thing.
Editor’s note
This poem won honourable mention in the “Best Poetry” category of the Ars Medica and CMAJ Humanities Poetry and Prose Contest 2013.