The Night You Were Born

by Liz Berry


The Night You Were Born

November 27th, a month before me, all the lights

in the Black Country out for the evening,

 

Wrens Nest tucked under a blanket of darkness,

mithered only by the fog-beams of your dad’s van

 

as it sped to the hospital. In the back, the dog,

snuffling in her bed of tools and woodshavings.

 

In the front, your mom, panting on the turns,

her frightened moon face waning at the window.

 

I think about that night when I doze, heavy

with our son, in the snow-soft hours.

 

What it would have been to have seen you, pushed

howling, from that red tent of legs,

 

the first word on the page of our story.

I press myself against you in the darkness, listen

 

for your murmur as he moves inside me. Oh love,

I can almost hear it now: that first cry –

 

a raw thread of sound spooling through Winter

to stitch our lives together.

© Liz Berry