Night Birth at Kalma

Tightenings of womb,

barking men roam the camp,

. . . I go on because I go on.

I labor . . .

Tightenings of men

who drooled and thrust me

into the dust for five days.

Why birth another?

Dirt moons under

my child’s toenails.

She’s curled at my shoulder.

Camp dust clouds up her feet,

. . . go on?

Footsteps of men . . .

I go on because I go on

because labor doesn’t stop

till it expels a brown child’s

dust-clouded feet.

Governors with silk clothes

can’t know this just existing,

this feeding one child instead of another,

. . . on because I go . . .

My children’s cheeks are valleys.

They sleep around me in piles.

Tightenings of womb, barking.

. . . laboring on my back,

it’s black outside the walls.

I stare at the desperation hum

swirling among huts.

I stare at threats from

dogs chained to poles,

of jaw spears sunk in cloudy feet,

. . . laboring.

I stare at the smell of urine pots.

We dare not empty them at night

with all those machete men out there.

Catherine is indebted to myspace for helping her find her long-lost son whom she placed for adoption two decades ago—thus you can find her blog HERE.

Her poetry will appear in upcoming issues of the Journal of the American Medical Association and BirdsEye Review. Recent works have appeared in Willows Wept Review and Gloom Cupboard.