i

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 She labors as we wait

She’s premature. It’s late.

Time’s thick tongue dryly licks

Her lips; 0436.

 

The cervix, not complete

Holds a butt and little feet

There’s no cord, heart rate fine

I worry, bide my time.

 

Four people, one a fetus,

wait for day to greet us.

Morose, I begin to dwell

On what there is to tell

 

Of Mestizo Amerinds

Whose trouble never ends

In this our tortured land

Far South the Rio Grande,

 

How a child might survive,

To keep its i alive

Unfed, untaught, but still

Fly North on wings of will.

 

I spend my little life

With death and birth and strife

And when the poor can’t pay

Stroke the rich to save my day,

 

See somber children grow

Like years, they come and go,

Speaking countless whys,

And not so simple lies.

 

Then wonderwords arrive,

As ‘Why am i alive?’

Or ‘where was i then?

‘Will i be me again?’

 

Answers, unpersuasive,

Seem lies or are evasive;

Except a newborn’s i,

Each word’s a subtle lie,

 

Fluid as a bat in flight

Whose image defies sight,

Or the quantal ‘where’,

That seen is never there,

 

Or dreams where we surmise

That we are all alive.

Past, future, even time

No one can quite define.

 

My God! She is complete!

Unblock the arms and feet;

Pull the face, and curse;

Ask pushes of the nurse!

 

And with a lusty cry,

There comes another i

Into a newborn day

To blow my words away.

 

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