Today I

Today I showed up on the steps of a bare footed midwife in sub zero temperature-
not to ask, as she thought, but to receive
glances into
she did not know, perhaps, the sort of crystal ball she became,
I wanted to remember what women looked like when called by the name
Midwife.  Her room was tidy and white, and she was barefoot, with long frayed hair,
and held her palms together whenever I flattered her.
I wanted only to skip past the parts she was playing, and get down and dirty
I knew she had the potential: perhaps I was too much like her or not enough.
I wanted to tell her how I fucking know
well the hung over days of holding a swaying mother,
and the surprising tenderness of scooping up her shit...
and how that's high on the list of things that an expecting mother is most afraid of...
as if a little poo while pushing had any bearing once her cunt split open.
Once her cunt split open:
even if she doesn't need stitches, there is no realer way to describe such a
radical entrance.  I didn't have time to say that, and it almost didn't matter.  She flattered
my intelligence, while still emitting a slight frequency of dismissive. 
She is right about me, what she said;
She is wrong about me, what she didn't say. 

Welcome to the very first post in my new blog.  I thought I would start with a poem I wrote the other night when taking a break from homework...

What Calling Sounds Like:

These hands are restless
they want to be already
at the opening of women
at the coming of child.
My fingers yearn for the crown
when a women splits herself in two;
It is not something you get use to
miracles are not something to get used to.
No matter the biology & statistics,
the moment a new being enters the world
is forever miraculous.
I have seen it as many times as I have fingers-
some day it will be hundreds
maybe thousands-
thousands of women splitting,
thousands of babies spilling
into these hands.
I am aging gracefully into my calling.
I am humbled greatly by my calling.
It is the calling of babies crying,
of mothers breathing-
deep & humming,
and of countless generations
of wise women whispering.
I read the books,
but it is in an old timey tongue,
deep in my bones
that has me knowing.