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.