The word hung in the room, <br />clinging as they often do <br />to drapes of orange heritage, <br />fine syllables thus had become <br />the buzzing sound of liberation. <br /> <br />Gloved fingers pried and tugged <br />between the baby smoothness of <br />white, shaven legs, spread far, <br />and so reluctantly apart. <br />The midwife whispered slyly <br />'we do have dilatation! ' <br /> <br />And then, there was a tuft <br />of caked and matted hair, <br />the vulgar sound of suck and gulp, <br />praised by the silliest ovation. <br /> <br />Well, that was you, my son, <br />no warts were visible back then, <br />only the rotten temper, yes <br />and those piano fingers, <br />your mother's perfect ears. <br />Then came the operation. <br /> <br />She'd bled that lonely night, <br />no troubles were expected, <br />there was no tear within <br />that would have justified <br />a curretage, or tamponade, <br />the afterbirth had come <br />with sudden ease, merci mon dieu. <br />But then, the devil's curse: <br />Twin separation.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-your-doctor-you-trust/
