Additional Credits:
This is the moment the frescos don’t show,
before everything is sanitized and prettied up.
As my child enters the brisk air of this world
sweet with the aroma of straw and the rusty
tang of my blood, a ewe near her time
approaches and licks my son free
of his birthing as she will her own lamb,
takes her tongue over my cheeks,
wet with tears and sweat. Then settles
her thick, woolly warmth beside us.
I spread my mantle over our trinity
of bodies. Her soft bleating is a lullaby
my weary voice steps into, our duet
more soothing than an angel chorus.
The babe sighs into sleep and pulls us
with him into the deep cave of dream
inhabited by every breathing creature.
