..

a baby-girl is moored to the womb,
afloat, and moving...  

a little jazzy brass is tending
to the intensive almost-dance movements of my baby;
the thumb-dum-drum, in the loudspeakers
of the fetal heart-rate monitors, is thus tense
but responding well to the outside world...

the voice of the health-insurance-paid doctor,
a shuffling of a table
balanced on three legs and three wheels...
and the hisses of a silent drama
rising quietly, in the air  

traffic of misconceptions, daily.
a trauma, played in an almost-songs conversations

yet the glare of life,
as it flashes like X-ray images in my baby's soaked  eye lines,
is reflecting well,
and is promising...  


i usher you to the world, sweet pie...
pick up your things and let's go!