Neonatology

Cbeanz

Not sure if anyone is into poetry here... but I feel compelled to share one with you today.

I heard a excerpt from Elizabeth Alexander's poem Neonatology on the radio when I was 36 weeks pregnant and driving home from a silent Zen weekend retreat.  Although I couldn't fully relate at the time, I knew I would soon be able to appreciate it.

Cbeanz

Neonatology

Is

funky, is

leaky, is

a soggy, bloody crotch, is

sharp jets of breast milk shot straight across the room,

is gaudy, mustard-colored poop, is

postpartum tears that soak the baby?s lovely head.

Then everything dries and disappears

Then everything dries and disappears

Neonatology

is day into night into day,

light into dark into light, semi-

and full-fledged, hyperconscious,

is funky, is funny: the baby farts,

we laugh. The baby burps, we smile, say ?Yes.?

The baby poops, his whole body stiffens,

then steam heat floods the pipes.

He slashes his nose with nails we cannot bear to trim,

takes a nap, and the wounds disappear.

The spirit lives in your squirts and coos.

Your noises and fluids are what you do.

Neonatology

is what we cannot see: you speak to the birds,

the birds speak back, is solemn, 

singing, funky, frightening,

buckets of tears on the baby?s lovely head, is

spongy.

 

?One day you?ll forget the baby,? Mother says,

?as if he were a pocketbook, a bag of groceries,

something you leave on a kitchen counter-top.

I left you once, put on my coat and hat,

remembered my pocketbook, the top and bottom locks,

got all the way to the elevator before I realized.

It only happens once.?

 

We lay on the bed and we rode the grey waves,

apricot juice in a glass in your hand,

single color in this grey light like November.

It is April. We rock.

Then the miracle which is always a miracle happens in many stages,

then the mouth which opens,

the bluebell

that sings.

I was just pregnant,

am no longer pregnant,

see myself in my memory 

in overalls, sensible shoes.

 

Shockingly vital, mammoth giblet,

the second living thing to break free

of my body in fifteen minutes.

The midwife presents it on a platter.

We do not eat, have no Tupperware

to take it home and sanctify a tree.

Instead, we marvel at my cast-off meat,

the almost-pulsing slab, bloody mesa,

what lived moments ago and now has died.

Now I must take the baby to my breast.

There is no mother here but me.

The midwife discards the placenta.

 

What do you make of this rain, little one,

night rain that your parents have loved all their lives?

From 2 to 3 ?The Streets of San Francisco? comes on each night,

and I watch Karl Malden stop crime, and listen

to the mouse-squeak of your suckling, behold your avid jaws,

your black eyes: otter, ocelot,

my whelp, my cub, my seapup.

In the days before you smile at me

or call me Mama or love me,

love is all tit, all wheat-smelling milk, humid crook of the arm

where your warm, damp head seems to live.

I pretend your clasping my finger means you love me

 

Dreamt the baby 

was born again,

arrived this time in a Moses basket,

had a crone?s face,

a Senegalese head wrap,

a pendulous lower lip.

 

 

Mamma Zememesh, I dreamt your sister?s names.

They floated around me as objects, satellites:

Zayd

Ntutu

Yeshareg

Asefash

Moulounesh

a spinning, turning, turning, spin.

 

I think the baby needs to eat. The baby?s hungry.

Look! He?s making sucking noises. Look!

His fist is in his mouth.

Why does the baby sleep all day? How

does the baby sleep at night? Three feedings? Huhn.

You need to let that baby cry.

You need to pick that baby up.

You need to put that baby down.

Kiss the baby too much, he?ll get heartburn.

What are those bumps on the baby?s face?

Why is the baby crying so?

That baby needs to eat, and now.

 

I dream the OB-Gyn is here

to spend the night with us. He wears

his white coat and his stethoscope

to bed, looks like a loaf

of whole wheat bread. Good-night, we say,

and shut our eyes.

The next day

he?s up early, jolly. ?Time

to have this baby! Tally ho!? And so we do.

 

All of my aunties chatting like crows on a line,

all of my aunties on electric breast pumps,

the double kind, one for each exhausted tit.

Mommy, the baby?s head popped off! A tiny head,

white, wet, bloodless, heartbeat still on the soft spot.

She tells me, Stick it back on, Girl. Don?t be afraid.

You can?t show your children you?re afraid.

A paraffin seam bubbles on his scalp.

A pink cicatrix lines his lovely neck.

 

Giving birth is like jazz, something from silence,

then all of it. Long, elegant boats,

blood-boiling sunshine, human cargo,

a handmade kite ?

Postpartum.

No longer a celebrity, pregnant lady, expectant.

It has happened; you are here,

each dram you drain a step away

from flushed and floating, lush and curled.

Now you are the pink one, the movie star.

It has happened. You are here,

and you sing, mewl, holler, peep,

swallow the light and bubble it back,

shine, contain multitudes, gleam. You

are the new one, the movie star,

and birth is like jazz,

from silence and blood, silence

then everything,

jazz.

candaceleigh21

This is intense and tear jerking.

Cbeanz

I really loved the part about how your fluids are what you do. I felt so reduced to a milk factory when I was home. Like I had nothing else to give the world at that time.

And now I relate to the postpartum piece. You are the celebrity now.

AnotherPreggo

Cbeanz:

I really loved the part about how your fluids are what you do. I felt so reduced to a milk factory when I was home. Like I had nothing else to give the world at that time. And now I relate to the postpartum piece. You are the celebrity now.

Yeah, that stage was really tough.  Interesting poem.  I'm not too much into poetry, but I could easily relate to this all of course. Thanks for sharing.

 

Cbeanz

Hey thanks so much to everyone who read this poem.  I know it was long, but it was an important piece for me, so I appreciate each of you taking the time to read.

Ziegeficker

Cbeanz:

Not sure if anyone is into poetry here... but I feel compelled to share one with you today.

I heard a excerpt from Elizabeth Alexander's poem Neonatology on the radio when I was 36 weeks pregnant and driving home from a silent Zen weekend retreat.  Although I couldn't fully relate at the time, I knew I would soon be able to appreciate it.

WHY DON'T YOU LIVE CLOSER SO WE CAN BE BEST FRIENDS FOREVER?!?!  

I was thinking of going on a hike up our local butte (is that a thing) on a meditation retreat, because I love meditation.  But I'm more worried about how out of shape I am and how I will probably embarrass myself getting up there, so I don't know if I will go.  But if I had company...

Cbeanz

Ziegeficker:

Cbeanz:

Not sure if anyone is into poetry here... but I feel compelled to share one with you today.

I heard a excerpt from Elizabeth Alexander's poem Neonatology on the radio when I was 36 weeks pregnant and driving home from a silent Zen weekend retreat.  Although I couldn't fully relate at the time, I knew I would soon be able to appreciate it.

WHY DON'T YOU LIVE CLOSER SO WE CAN BE BEST FRIENDS FOREVER?!?!  

I was thinking of going on a hike up our local butte (is that a thing) on a meditation retreat, because I love meditation.  But I'm more worried about how out of shape I am and how I will probably embarrass myself getting up there, so I don't know if I will go.  But if I had company...

Like you were going on your own personal retreat?  If so that is bad@ss.  Mine was at a retreat center and it happens a few times per year.  I totally appreciate the silence more now with an outside baby.  If you happen to be in southwestern Ohio the last week of September, let me know...

Ziegeficker

Cbeanz:

Like you were going on your own personal retreat?  If so that is bad@ss.  Mine was at a retreat center and it happens a few times per year.  I totally appreciate the silence more now with an outside baby.  If you happen to be in southwestern Ohio the last week of September, let me know...

No, it's kind of an organized thing that I caught wind of through a masseuse that knows my doula (I live in a small town). But I don't know if I want to go or not. I am seriously stressing about the hike up even though I am relatively certain nobody would make fun of me. But still...

i took a 30-day meditation "mini-mester" in college and loved it. It really changed my life. I just don't have the time or motivation to meditate anymore. As it is, when I have free time, I would much rather just waste away in front of the TV.