In at the Kill

The contractions are coming faster now.

Every ten minutes or so

A crush of pain made bearable

Only by the certainty of its passing.

Midwives come and go.

At nine forty-five, a show.

It must go on. The floodgates open,

A universe implodes.

There is no going back now

(As if there ever was). Shall I slip away

And start a new life?

Instead, I do as I am told:

‘Push, push. Stop, stop. Now push.

Come on, more. The head’s coming.

Push harder. Harder. Push, push.’

Then out it comes – whoosh.

Uncoiled, I am thrown back.

For some reason I twirl.

Doubledizzy, I steady myself

On the bedrail. ‘It’s a girl.’

***

And so it is. My first.

Having witnessed three sons bawl into view

With the familiar appendage of their gender,

I am unprepared for… (what’s the word,

Begins with p and ends with enda?)

Amazed, not by any lack or absence

But by the prominence of the lack,

The perfect shape of the absence.

Flashbulbs interrupt my musing,

The theatre fills with flowers.

My wife leads the applause,

I bow. ‘Thank you… Thank you…’