Birth in the Squatting Position

When the whole of you splashed from the hole
in me, and the weight of you was placed in my arms,
the first thing I saw was the top of your head.

After hours and eons of heels of hands pressed
to my spine, obedient to Whatthefuckisamatterwithyou,
that’s not the right spot! And then the wondrous pause

with the whorls of their fingers still resting
on the fine hairs of my back, a cool cloth held
to my eyes, and of course, you, tumbling down.

After months of willing my palms to see through
the tight dome of skin, thin veil of amnion, the
myometrium, all for a peek of your sweet

face, your curled foot. And years since the clock
went tick, one lost. One lost before.
Here         you         are.

Just like that. Still humid from my folds and not
so slippery, in fact. All that worthy
nonsense over and my hands reach fully

around your belly. I could look at your lips, your
sliver
of nail, everywhere, know you’re a girl, raise you
to my breast. But not yet. I just need to know the top

of your head. The curve of bone, the swirl of fuzz,
the smears of my blood. This perfect piston that led
you.
Led you here.