Twin Birth
At four years old, the two creatures
who once swam like fish inside me—
bobbing and swaying in the ocean
of their amniotic sacs—want to play
baby. “Please Mama, let us go in your
shirt.” I lift an old T-shirt, and one
squeezes inside, shifting his head
beside my bare breast while the other
pushes him to the side before entering
by stretching the fabric to a deformed
shape. Under my shirt, we are three
heartbeats again—triplet sound effect.
They nuzzle and coo to me, to each other,
before they say, “Mama, say you never
think we’ll come out.” I rub the bulge
of a made-up belly, “Oh, I don’t think
these boys will ever come out.” They
begin to practice their birth: a passage
never taken considering the doctor pulled
them out of an incision, saying, “All arms
and legs.” The first slips out of my shirt
as if falling down a slide. Safely grounded,
he looks at me with calf eyes, round and
brown. The other slides out, finds
his brother, and cuddles him. They sit up,
murmur, “Mama,” before they crawl away.
1 reply on “Twin Birth”
I love this. A precious game for all of you.