From a patchwork of accounts, I imagine my birth,
its precipitous coming, coinciding with a record
late snow. Not spring cover, soft and down-like,
but sheets of icy crystals swaddling the astonished
earth and blighting the promise of Easter.
My mother, wan with pain and fear, waits, prays
that the doctor can navigate the treacherous roads,
while my father hovers helpless, knowing only
barnyard deliveries.
Dr. Speight arrives, stern and blustery, reeking
of spirits for fortitude. Anger his reaction
to premature labor. It is time. He yields
to task, weighs the slippery, glistening mass
on kitchen scale and pronounces: Female,
two-and-a-half pounds.
He is tender now, even jovial, prescribing:
Keep the baby warm in a chair by the heater.
If she sleeps too much, make her cry to expand
her lungs. Sounds like she'll have no need of that.
And you, Mother, take plenty of liquids. Rest
as much as you can. Eat hearty. Try not to worry.
Pulling my father out the door, he advises:
Go into town, ask on Thomas Street for Arsenie Battle.
She's good with babies and won't cost you much.
Embarrassed by my father's tears of relief
and gratitude, he bolts away, his Model T sliding
toward the ditch as he shouts to the leaden sky,
"What more can I do? Am I God?" and reaches
for a bottle, his only source of remedy.
