Hinge
The door rattles. Blast of pain, and past
the pear-white chill of the birth ward bustles
this odd shadow down my legs and away.
Wet hair styled stiff by the minute’s ladle—
you are here and growing to the naked eye new
dizzy space in your lungs. Rigging the topsail
nailsbreadth at a time. Your nails
clear and tiny, row of ellipses erased.