Aug 282011
 
It lay self-entangled, curled as ramshorns,
--And pushed the belly into being mother--
Who, to be herself, had first to the Other,--
Which looked as if it didn't want being born.

Its sideways was more, and worse, than backwards.
It had to be sawn out to be itself a lamb,
Startle the clover and bleat "I am."
The bowie knife came handy without a word.

A tense scarlet torn sort of giving-in,
A clattering shape cauled on scattered straw,
Ungainly upright legs besides the ewe's,
Shook me wet and bellowed out of pain.

What had come too soon would need a mother's milk.
I pulled all night through wetness with raw silk.