Early Labor

Down the hospital hall a minutes-old baby

sounds like a cat, or the raccoons

I've heard in the small hours, prowling

street trees and storm drains. Then again,

like a baby, yes, but crying in the foreign

language of untried cords. The one inside

shoves against me, casting off.

The monitor taps out throaty heartbeats,

timing, charting, each contraction

a jagged peak. I think of my first child-

all tempests and slippery giggles, the way

he loves firefighters and backhoes-and try

to welcome this faceless pain. In faith

we've already named its source.

Who knows how this passage will alter

our very weather? In the mystery of the body

he strains and pushes-all portent for now,

unseen omen, a shift in the wind:

the future inexorably coming. When he kicks,

a clap of thunder rattles the monitor.