mothers

 You are handing me a baby.

"Take it" you say. "He's beautiful. He's ours."

I am on hands and knees, tub water still clear, 

Kaleb squeezes on my hips and I think of this boy you're handing me -- 

I am surrounded by angels, and I know it. 

Them. I know them.

But you -- You are holding him and I am crying out

and he is passing through fire, and water, and his head will tumble out soon but now he is in the in-between

I am in the in-between

But you -- somehow, you are not.

You are clear, you are loving, you are solid, and sure. Somehow, you are unseen and unknown and yet gently you reach out your heart to me, hands outstretched with a boy.

Unseen, unheard, understood that we could not be motherless after all. 

My knees press bruises into the floor,

the baby gives me a rest for 20 seconds --

just long enough to feel that I am ready --

"I can do this"

"I am surrounded by angels"

"I love my baby"

Kaleb at my back, Sarah near the tub, in our home we are about to burst the veil, 

and I push through it --

His head, you are placing it in my hands

his shoulders, they tumble,

and I am reaching through the water bringing him up to my heart.

Mother I never saw your hands -- though I am sure he felt them--

and, "oh, he's beautiful." He's ours.