Once I
poked my belly dearly, while I pondered, weak and teary,
Over many names and exactly what the future would hold in store,
While I prodded, clearly tapping, suddenly there came a rapping,
And someone nearly laughing, laughing at what I'd endure.
'Tis some moron,' I muttered, 'laughing at my painful chore
-Only this, and nothing more.'
I remember
I fell in a swoon from the heat that came in June,
And each granule of the sand wrought its grit upon my shore.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - when I would not be a barrel
Or a whale upon the shore - ever pregnant, ever more?
Where's the rare and tender maiden whom the angels blessed and more?
- Waiting here and ever bored.
Then the
painful jolt uncertain, falling like a crimson curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I lay just waiting
'Tis just some gas repeating, clinic food I do deplore -
Or just a stitch from all this waiting to begin my lifelong chore
-This is all and nothing more.'
Deep into
that darkness peering, long I lay there cursing, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no maiden ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, in the dark no word was spoken,
In my bed, my tears were choking at the whispered words, 'not yet?'
This I whispered, and the darkness murmured back the words 'still more'
Merely this, and nothing more.
I lay back
in my bed cursing, but my state it wasn't worsing
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
'Surely,' said I, 'surely it is the midwife at my bedroom door
Let me push, then, and make it so, thus begin the momentous chore -
Calm my heart, be still a moment as I think upon my chore
-Tis not gas but something more!'
In there
stepped a driven lady of the ancient days of yore;
Not the least courtesy made she; not a smile but did berate me
And with mien of conqueror, stood there scowling at my door -
Chart in hand and figures flying, regardless of how I implored
- Stood and scowled, 'not yet your chore'.
So I sit
like maids in waiting, poking lump and thereby stating
'Tis your time so stop debating and exit from nature's door'
This and more I said divining, my imagination dining
Lying on the clinic's sterile lining while this birth I did implore
Would this babe steadfast and sure render me screaming with a roar,
'Will she come, ah, nevermore?'
Sat the
midwife, ever knitting, still she's sitting, still she's sitting
Like Edgar Allen's Raven in the chair just by my door;
But her eyes now soft and knowing, no more demon's orbs a glowing
So the clock ticks ever slower, and my tears run down onto the floor
Would my child come out the shadows that keep me on this clinic floor
And so begin my life's chore?
Answered she, 'evermore.'
(c) ArdentTly 062900