Dark
Later I learned how a friend from high school
had had her babies: alone in a field
with a flashlight and a midwife.
So many questions.
Was it cold? Was there a blanket,
plaid check against the stubble,
or flower grass, or frost bled through
with stubborn mud? Were there stars?
How lonely was it under stars?
It reminded me of a night years ago
before I was yours or you were mine:
I accepted a ride, a silver-headed helmet,
a place on the back of a bike—only the air
to hold onto. Or a near-stranger’s waist.
We drove into dark, through the middle
dark, behind thick pines, on a fire road.
I could have said no.
It was so dark I felt beautiful,
so dark my puddled dress glowed.
I didn’t feel the danger until we drove
back to the party, and the fire
was out, the ashes wet, everyone
I knew gone. It was like a riot
had broken up—only red cups
in the weeds. Take me home,
I might have said, but I was far
from home. I woke up in a storm
from a dream about him,
and my tooth was broken, gnashed
near in half. Miles away at dinner
with his family, he mashed food
and split a molar.
We both tasted blood in our mouths,
our mouths that had been
at each other’s throats.
And still I didn’t feel danger.
I didn’t feel mortal. I didn’t know
fear—
until they passed the child
under my legs and into my arms,
slippery, warm, the faces
of the midwives shined, expectant,
your weary, wondering
sigh. No doctors. No instruments.
No hospital. Only us. Only
everything. And the wild world
waiting, opening— 