Parturition

Vomiting up a pain no one had prepared me for I lie shaking in the afterquake, waiting for my firstborn. Nurses sponge then swaddle her in a geometry of perfection, bring her to my breast in a practiced hold. I stare at her sleeping, sobbing over those tiny features, each eyebrow arched in symmetry, lips a rose bow. I check on her compulsively and feed her each hour divisible by three, a schedule formulated to ward off evil such as crib death and failure to thrive. The middle child emerges almost gone, face the color of stratus storm cover, limbs wasted and strangely still. The twisted gristle around his neck is eased over his bald man's head. A rush of blood tints him the hopeful color of a lipstick shade, Pink Nude in the Afternoon. He latches on with a consuming connection, interest on calories lost to those kinks in our three vesseled cable. The lastborn comes before the midwife in a rush more heat than pain. Sturdy, homely and huge, head held up with startling strength, he searches out visions to match nine months of voices. He roots to find the favored nipple before the cord is cut, sucks sweet colostrum as he drips a salty birth broth. With the force of his hunger my womb contracts with a pain as perfect as a morning glory closing after bloom.