Her feet were purple when she was born,
The cord pinned between her shoulder and me.
Half a dozen extra doctors and nurses had converged in the room moments before,
All of me open to all of them
As my doctor, the one I started with so many weeks ago,
Back when she told me they don’t use the tongs anymore,
Suction cupped her tiny head and yanked,
I breathed,
And the baby entered this world with a mighty howl.
In seconds all the contingency actors vanished.
The center of the room, the universe,
Was a tiny creature, fists tight, mouth wide, screaming.
Of course she was born the only way she lives—stubborn and fearless.
