Because the water broke and the inferior ovary
plumed. Because without room, matter in a belly,

conceived in fodder rich walls found opportune.
The garden blossomed full with radiance.

Odds aside though, it was a harsh rescue, the miss,
the spill, the bowlegged surgeon, recalled on call.

There rests all freedoms of passage,
when your hand races against the wheel,

when the brakes give and you are tumbling
through naveled space-- full term, discontent.

Nothing at last! That is, inflamed organ
of a womb hoisting your wreckage from the deep

skeletal walls of a vacuum wrought
with visions: beezelbub, dybbuk, djinn,

before you open-body to a sky, a sun, never brighter
than in nine months from now.