Take it to the bathroom and
put it in your pocket. Come back
and pay for it. What about some
butter? Your conscience
likes the stimulus. It saddles
your fib in velvet,
breaks it. Now you squirm
when you sit. Supernatural
stillness buried in your
laughter, discoordinated
gestures, you switch off
every fan in the earthship and
drive to the throbbing core, back
to the labor ward. A woman, non
compos, clutches at
your ear as you press
her ruptured uterus. Has she
come down from the meth? Can
she consent? Your stitching draws
a compliment—“At least
you’re consistent”—from a
resident. “Fucking
sidewalk people,” says the
woman’s father. “Sure as hell
ain’t living with me.” At the
back of your mind where
your spirit hangs down like
a uvula, you
swallow him alive. Maybe
that’s why when you’re
waking up at 3, all you can think
is, “I need coffee and a dick
in me.” The cretin that
becomes us when we titter
at the homeless lunging
for the car or crushing
industrial caulk into the street, that
giddy feeling of
absurdity and sorrow, is what
guides you to the
suffering. You’re like a
dowser’s rod jerking
to an underwater
stream. “What’s
the point of this?” you
think. Break down crying. Four
hours later, purple as
a bishop’s robes and light
as fluorescence, the baby’s
in your hands. You lay her
on her mother’s chest. A noise
like icicles crashing on a
plastic drum catches in
her throat. A moment
of quiet, then the
attending leaves to check her
messages. The placenta
almost radiates as the scrub
nurse eases it into a
gleaming, clear container.