A warm effervescence, and she knows,
That, inside her, brews transcendence.
As her hips outstretch, her heart, with her child, grows.
It squirms in its peach ocean, and, with each paddle, it heightens her convalescence.
But when he strokes the bump, he spins her mind like a crazed wheel.
He feels the ecstasy inside her, chuckles, and murmurs that candied love,
Purrs that cascade of sugar-engorged solace so that she thinks she heals,
That the gruesome sutures will numb in his presence, and the baby, mauve,
Swims towards the large, thick hands of his father and she,
She who cradles a creature of perfection insider her swollen breasts,
She who holds it inside her with the indispensability of an organ and without rest,
She who bleeds, scars, and aches while wishing her baby the world’s best,
She will give it everything but her name.
While he, he who was not left half-lame for birth’s sake, will egress, without shame.