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.
For a natural birth.