Scar Tissue

First Place, 2024 Foster Poetry Prize

For ten days I hung around on all fours, crafted a “tunes for birthing”
mixtape of feminist singer-songwriters, then choked down a cocktail

of castor oil and orange juice concentrate. The baby yielded a little to time
and tincture. Gravity and forceps. But still, with a head circumference

that used up a good length of the midwife’s tape, the boy had to be cut
out. There was no folk music in the operating room. A torn uterus

and increased risk of rupture meant the second and third babies had to
come by section too. I got a fresh scar each time, with strips of extra tissue

cut away for the heap. When neighbours brought clam chowder after
the third baby, the husband said I might just as well get a zipper put in

for next time, and too bad I couldn’t pop out babies as easy as his wife
who delivered kids under the home office fax machine, just like that,

with two snaps of his thumb and middle finger. Oh, that I had this
zipper, to pull the slider along metal teeth, open things up and poke

around. I would look for evidence of the lost baby, thank the space
for growing the others. I’d like to see the diminishing clusters of aging

eggs. And if the kids were curious, they could have a peek too, tour
around awhile. Remember this? See that? Nothing hurts here anymore.