taken out of me (we do not speak of those scars)
Post-birth, what blood-shades are revealed
under surgical light?
What splatter-push patterns are left
on the floor?
Which cleaning products are specific
to the aftermath of gashes not made with scalpels?
Skin is such a marvel, and yet so quiet to split
in contrast to the sucking release I remember,
how my navel sank in my chin-chest tunnel vision
and I thought thank god that’s done
before I begged for blankets, caught up in cold
I could not surmount, though I shook,
though my shoulders were held down by faceless nurses,
my legs splayed with stitches inlaid, and I wondered
if the last I would see
were these green-masked ghouls
and not the baby
I was never sure I wanted.
The air in the room at dawn
was just as frigid
when rubber hands removed yards
of red-stained white, and every yank
brought tears of disbelief:
how much more
can you possibly take
out of me?