It’s the final moment — the tugging —
that’s the worst. A sucking deep within the pelvis,
where the body contracts as if
to cling to that tiny growth. Everything
seems to fight for life, the way a moth
with wings bent and tattered by the cat
still stretches its proboscis to an offered cap of water.
The uterus does not easily let go.
My body’s instinct is deeply woven, dense
as the bird’s nest the house painter found
beneath the eaves. He gasped at the eggs
in their bowl of twigs, cupped it
in his sunburned, paint-speckled hands, placed it
back before dusk, but the birds never returned.