I’m thinking of birth tonight.
Our son, born at the foot of our bed, me on my knees. Like a prayer, Wil says.
My nephew, born on the day of the super moon, pulled here, same as the high tide.
My own birth, 30 some years ago, the first photos of my parents holding me, smiling, a little shellshocked, so in love.
My sister’s birth, me at 3, watching sesame street as she came wailing into the world.
And I think, birth is not clean or tidy. It’s not wrapped up in a neat package. It’s not cute.
It’s bone wrenching, wrung-out, blood- soaked, wailing,
It hurts. A lot. You feel like you’re going to die.
And you might.
Years ago Wil and I picked up a doe, killed on the road, abandoned. She was big, belly round, we had trouble lifting her into the car. We figured if the meat was no good, we could at least get her skin, tan it, make moccasins, a shirt, maybe a pouch as well. Bury the rest, pay our respects.
When you skin a deer, you make a neat shallow incision, right up the belly. The skin peels off exactly like a shirt from sweaty muscles. And it’s a pure, lily white inside, no meat attached, no blood, if you do it right.
Once the skin is removed, you make a slightly deeper incision. And then it’s messy. There’s blood, and ruby red organs, glistening liver, chambered heart. Miles of intestines. The smell of grass, and arterial blood, rich with iron.
But this doe, on this day, she, oh God, she, contained indescribable beauty. As we made the incision in her abdomen, we opened the womb that lay inside.
And out slid the two most perfect little baby deer. Twins. Long curled eyelashes, elfin hooves, and such delicate spots, you’d swear, it was just dappled sun shining through the trees.
Birth is looking into the face of God.
And if you survive, if you look into the face of God and come out safe on the other side,
After your bones have shifted, and your throat is raw from shouting, and your hair is plastered to the back of your neck and your heart is broken and mended all at once,
you’ll finally understand.
You’ll finally understand
what we’re fighting for.
And that EVERYTHING
must be born.
Thank you for listening,
Thank you Daisy, for this incredibly beautiful guest post tonight. Thank you for your words; for sharing.
Concrete and steel for hearts,
burning, gasoline-fire hands.
fucking trees and forests
rivers of acid,
acrid, rotting blood.
We float below roads and bridges,
Harbinger of modern chemical
our nation of oleam.
We have come
Exist to progress,
shoulder shrugging, we powerless,
shining with knowledge
dirt covered faces
whisper magic birdsong
in awe of snake tongue spirit springs…..
great wooden arms
will stretch and flex through our mass.
The river will be glass,
and the glass will be broken.
There’s mountains to move.