No Midwives Can Do What Angels Can
—Cotton Mather
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. 
The Ball of Human Cells Speaks to the Double Helix
The Homunculus Speaks from the Bed of the Ovarian Dermoid Cyst
The Lambs Wool Strap Speaks from the Gurney, 1915
No Midwives Can Do What Angels Can