Natal Ghazal
Pass cigars. Let Dad kvell. A child is born.
Bid full nights’ sleep farewell. A child is born.
Wolf licks birth-blood from her cub. From a cat’s
panting or a cracked shell, a child is born.
Leda’s rapist dons feathers. Proserpine
unpacks her bags in hell. A child is born
in a barn — His followers will spin new
myths, rename Yule “noel.” A child is born
from a test-tube embryo, frozen, then
thawed. From an ancient spell, a child is born.
Egg and sperm, sure, but what about the soul?
Dream-glazed eyes, fontanelle — a child is born
unfinished. Even in a bomb shelter
or bitter prison cell, a child is born.
The teen girl didn’t know why she’d gained weight
and felt so odd, unwell. A child is born
in a prom bathroom, left while she goes back
to dance. No one can tell a child is born.
Dragging a sack of parents’ unlived dreams,
primed to fail or excel, a child is born.
McConnell’s illegal refusal. Court
seat stolen, Roe’s death knell. A child is born
because misogyny, not love of kids.
The handmaids’ bodies swell. A child is born.
Her aging eggs made miracles. At home,
no doctor, no scalpel, a child is born.
Fuck breathing when the ring of fire ignites.
Stone’s final primal yell. A child is born.
***
Lot’s Daughters Set the Record Straight
We were not the doers
but the done-to. Ask Yahweh
why we spurn suitors,
wake sweat-soaked and screaming
from night monsters with our father’s eyes.
We do love our sons, dip them
in the lake to wash them clean.
If we hold their heads under
a bit too long,
no woman would blame us.
Nights we miss Mother the most.
When the wind rustles just right,
we hear her voice, feel her
ruffle our hair. Afterward, the fingers
we run through our stiff and sticky bangs
taste sharp with salt.