He lay on my belly, dark eyes open
for the first time, burning recognition
into my eyes that late afternoon
when he was born limp, almost
purple, not moving.

He flinched when the midwife tapped
the soles of his feet, his slight chest
heaved, then calmed or stilled
in a cascade of words and urgency.

Then the ambulance we both rode 
over the rumble of potholes
that smoothed into the parking lot 
where they took him from my arms
and wouldn’t let me pick him up 
again for five days. Only stand
all day and most nights at the glass
case, stick my hands through
the jellyfish-like openings
to let him grasp my finger
covered with adhesive holding
lines to the outside world, pumps 
up  and down. Something’s wrong, 
they said without saying it.

The first drive back to the house
to get supplies, the clean living room,
the refrigerator stocked by friends
who even did our laundry, 
my belly deflating, I fell against
a wall, crying loud enough that a neighbor 
who didn’t like me rushed in 
and wrapped me against her chest.

In my hungry arms, I didn’t know
how soon we’d carry him out,
so happy in the July humidity,
to his carseat in the pick-up truck.
We would sing “La Marseillaise” 
because it was Bastille Day, 
he was free, we were free,
wounded animals that we were.