“Safe Passage” by B. Bergin-Foss
My mind slices awake at two in the morning—
hours before the rooms awaken with the sun’s rays.
How will I make it to the afternoon sky?
Draped in a crimson sheet, hands latch granite countertops, I squat
stretch into goddess pose at the kitchen sink, my better half sends
our four-year-old daughter off on a playdate, full of mac ‘n’ cheese
smiles, hennaed tattoos of Christmas trees in July. The dog children
stay back, sense my umbilical’s leash, know to lay around, wait.
Contractions choke every ten minutes. I am not resisting today.
Natural light’s glow peeks through curtains, curls under
my chin, lifting my head from the hold. I become allergic to my husband’s
sounds banging from the kitchen. What’s he doing in there anyways?
When he delivers a mason jar of elk bone broth to my lips
through a green, striped straw, rubs his thumb on my furrowed brow,
scowl fades. Drink, my midwife encourages from the rocking chair.
Their comfort comes easy. My jaw clenches at the fists wringing my guts.
Strength wanes like a buried wick, my cervix swallows the match
just before it locks. I crawl across the floor dragging my sheet in defeat.
Clouds rescue me. Shapeshifting
altocumulus mariposa lilies then meercats
kaleidoscope late July’s sky.
Raw, naked, necessary
in my homeplace. The crimson
cloak cascades to the floor, I step into a hot spring—
convenience in my living room.
My arms flank the sides
find the furry comfort of four-leggers
unable to leave me. Loyal companions, these two.
Licks of encouragement ease the ripples of magma within.
My mind leaves through the window to cloud dance,
passes between the juniper branches
while my body
floats in the bathwater.