Perhaps it’s the same thing

I don’t know the pain of birthing.

All three of my children were yanked out of incisions

just below my enormous belly 

as I lay immobile, my arms and legs stretched

without a shade of modesty.

 

Someone told me

that the stinging of a surgical incision is nothing

compared to pushing a human out of your vagina.

I didn’t tell her what it was like 

to carry two humans together in a womb 

that pushes so terribly against your rib cage  

you nearly pass out. 

 

I’m pregnant again;

a poem wriggles and writhes inside me

gives me acidity as I toss and turn at night

while it grows. 

 

I wait.

For a natural birth. 

 

Saee Koranne-Khandekar

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