Birth Trio

Let this wonder grow
like everything else does -
the bump on my nose, banged in the bath
the pink impatiens, my impatience with absence
as my husband hounds the bounds of marriage
about another bridal pair.
Even the ice cream guy has an eye for me
these days. Till three he works away
spinning cream through sandy ice
churning the butter dance, as the liquid quickens
like my little one, coming to life, in and out of days
over a week and through months end to end.
I get the bends from diving deep inside myself
looking for junior, searching this new soul
lodged beside my borrowed rib.
*
The human limbs of the spinning fan
rotate slowly in the feckless breeze:
the clouds' second thought of sending movement
down below. Here our bodies write upright lines,
but the baby settles head down,
his own position
bunching the body for flight,
a cannon ball jump into life
revolving through birth, rolling into gravity,
the grave situation of placing mind over all
when the red pulse of a head hung down
may produce a splash of human rain:
a richer thought.
*
Blowing in between me and sleep
a sandy-eyed gaze into smallness
that screams. Your too-tender lungs
clutch the ends of my nerves,
fill this house with your growing presence.
The burning spout can barely
suckle lips whose creases
puff wet friction.
Take me to spattered sleep,
following bits of peace
you deal out like a haughty dancer.
constant clatter of bracelets:
our home's new hum.