She held the thing as if it were a baby
propped into the cradle of her hands
and elbows, not the soft blue blanket
cosseting rolled towels that we see.
Her mortal eyes were not equipped
to register the bland sun-yellow spirit
fellow in the front who knew, without
a willing mom, he could not come to be
(that willing mother clearly wasn’t she).
That spirit always will metabolize into
a form is never guaranteed, despite
how certain we were, at that moment,
that the next in line to breed all warm
and breathing into being would be you.
But maybe every birth is sneakily
immaculate. Sans a mama, riding
shotgun on that bland sun-yellow spirit
fellow, somehow you came through.