deliverance
poetry by barbara reese
I held it in my hand, gender unknown
The blood sticky and warm
Taking repose, inside the crease, of my lifeline,
The rusty brown, half-circle path course circling
Delicately, down and around my thumb
I stared mutely at the pad, meant to absorb,
Not cradle
The miniature purple skull and curve of a limb,
Barely discernable, like a sacrifice
The dull pain, in my lower back, receding,
Outside I could hear the muffled voices, of my husband and daughter, the trill and
timbre
Mingled with the subtle hum of the truck's engine,
The vibration like, the rhythm of breathing
The sound as furtive and as fragile,
As the dust mote slide, down, the wormhole
Guided chinks of light that poked inside the edifice,
Of a lakeside retreat, I leaned forward,
Head down, in a clammy sweat, bereft
No toweling, no spare clothing,
No receptacle
To contain or conceal, the overly premature,
Not too immaculate, birth, of what would later
Be termed, inevitable
I imagined my 2 year old,
Wide-eyed, demanding
Her curious, pudgy hands, always reaching
For any bit or bundle, always expecting a surprise
The confines of the truck cab, too close, to hide,
Too, close, to protect,
I did not think, beyond, that thought,
I simply let go, careful not to look,
Too closely, I watched the swirl of water
Rise to receive, baptize,
And deliver,
And stepped outside
about the author
Barbara Reese is a published poet and essayist. Finding solace, refuge, purpose, and direction in the written word, she looks forward to tapping into other creative forays, including photography and fiction. She considers it a profound pleasure to be recognized by other literary enthusiasts.
