A Lump of Pure Sound

It hurts, we say, of stomachache, skinned

knee, sprained wrist, it hurts, as if it

isn’t us. This really hurts, Barb, my mother

says she said, the words grown legendary

in their understatement—This really hurts,

Barb!—Barb being the midwife & this

being me, my white-knuckled arrival.

When my own daughter arrived, I let

the pain come close, holding out my hand

as to a horse & tensing for a bite

that could break bone. It broke

& broke. I strained away

from the trampling in my hips as if

I could slough them off—

my hips. This really hurts, Barb,

I thought. & then

it didn’t, not so much: I bent my back

for the epidural & watched my pain

canter away, shaking its chestnut mane.

Glorious thing. But who needs glory?

I could still see it, out there, at the pasture’s edge.

It wasn’t me. Though in the fading light, we might be

mistaken for relations. In the fading light,

she has my mother’s eyes.