When the bearing down begins,
is this courage for the passing through—
or bravery for the inheritance of blood?
Or is it the terror of tearing,
expulsion of not belonging—
the urging to be freed?
And this presence in my belly,
this yearning to contain and hold—
does it not consider pain or wound?
Do not admire the episiotomy
any more than some placental pleasure—
birth is not courage. It’s guts.
2012 © Andie Davidson
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