Squeezed Out

You’re primed for that final dive

towards the light; but my heart


is misbehaving  – racing yours

in misplaced sympathy.


We move from home

to hospital:


“Blue light,” says the midwife,

“Blue light, please.”


And it’s only afterwards

I understand I could have died:


that my body, primed to push,

could have pushed too hard:


my heart bursting into her hands

with the eagerness of birth.


Would she have caught it,

wrapped it in a blanket,


handed it to your father

to take home – your cot-twin,


wheezing its leaky refrain

 to your new breaths?

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