_ In the settler's journal it is written: 

Addy, the midwife cradled a crucifix.
Your mother gripped a birthing chair,
fragments of the hundred year coffee tree,
towels boiled over fire,
leather strap and guts -
You emerged, glass slits for eyes.

Blood pooled, then froze,
on the floor. Steam escaped in a ghostly
pale as if one soul entered while another left.

She pushed you into the world and then never more.

Addy sang softly in her work, words
heavy with damp, drying what remained
before what remained froze.

In spring, burlap carried the seed
that paid for the land, but this night
men - who would never stand and wait -
blanketed grief, filled gaps, kept back the cold.


12/3/2011 01:51:13 am

This is beautiful. I have no other intelligible words to shed any more light on this, but this is remarkably lovely. I love the imagery and the brevity. Nice work!

Sandy Benitez
12/3/2011 06:00:19 am

I agree with Linda. This poem has such lovely imagery and I enjoyed the historical details within it. I wish I wrote this one.

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