No Midwives Can Do What Angels Can

Wicked are her knuckles beating at your door. She sniffs out

your broken water she summons a monster come tremoring

from your womb, she rides to your door on her broomstick yes

she does. You are alone in the room. This is the inquisition

without a question. The fire burns until the stake is

whittled to a needle. Until the tongues are stilled. Shut your

ears to the knuckles’ crack, you are not alone with the baby

coming. The dust now quickening at your skirts marks the Angels’

coming to your attendance. Sweet perfume of feather, twist

of luminous gold. Take your place in the lap of Angels

which is your birth chair. When the time draws nigh, God

billows forth His apron to catch the baby easy

as an apple from the tree. If we do nothing effectually alone,

then you are not alone. The winged choir

to resound the Word of God. Blessed be

the women swinging from the gallows, the crook

in their necks which saves you. God gives only a perfect child

into your arms. The baby kicks. The baby cries.