Sans a Mama

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.

.