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Entries in birth poetry (2)


"Homebirth Awareness Week"

While Homebirth Awareness Week is almost over in Australia, I came across this beautiful post entitled "Homebirth Awareness Week" and wanted to share at least a few lines of it.

Lauren, of the owlet blog, poetically says (in part):

I am aware that homebirth is an amazing, life changing, completely normal, everyday miracle kind of thing.

I am aware that I am extremely lucky to have a home to birth in.

I am aware that many women around the world do not have the same luxury I do. The best they can hope for is to avoid trauma and infection and that someone might get them a glass of water or gently rub their back.

I am aware that I am lucky to have a care provider who will just be with me and leave me to birth in my own time.

I am aware that my right to have the birth that I want, with the care provider I want, is on tenterhooks (sic).

and she beautiful ends the piece with:

I am not brave. I am not a hippie. I am not built for birthing more than any other woman. But I am aware.

Please take a moment and read the entire poem. And let Lauren know how much you enjoyed her prose. Here awareness is lovely.


Sanguineous Shock

I’m pressed against the icy wall
as blue-green ghosts float into
and never out of
the ceremonial shadows.

Salient scalpels
rip open the mound of flesh
Covering curls of fetus.
Within, silence.

Pulling and tugging,
freeing the trapped child,
its hostess serves torrents
of sanguine wine.

Death burns my senses.
Her life spilled onto the sterile floor
as coagulating pools splatter beneath
tormented servants.

Disbelieving, I watch.

Bags of gifted liquid are forced into her non-existent veins
only to find their way out
through her eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and pores.
Red is not a color that becomes her.

Slammed backwards in horror,
her husband stares
open mouthed
at his wife’s disembodiment.

Realizing the futility of resurrection,
focus turns towards the newborn
lying lifeless bathed in blood
that is not his own.

His silence is palpable.

Doctors and nurses,
drenched in blood,
collapse earthward -
a place she will never walk again.

I, too, sink to the floor.

The lifeless child now living
only in the minds of others.

Despair permeates the now resigned attendants.
sweat drips into pools of red icing the floor –
caregivers unable to give care,
witnesses to each other’s pain.

Splashing fists pound “God’s plan”
and tears dilute her life’s force
that continues dripping from the table.
Our faces smeared with equal parts of death and guilt.

I walk into the sunlight numb.