My daughter’s labor is musical.
The depth of the cello,
the range of the piano, solo
of the violin, the strength of the kettles.
She opens for breath, solitary in her mission.
Moans deep in her throat form familiar notes
as she begs time to stop, to go,
to empty her.
Now on her hands and knees, she moves
her child through her body. Eyes, nose, mouth.
Soon her baby’s head will open her
and I will pass my grandson to my daughter.
He will reach for her breast.
As her arms will reach for him,
as my arms once reached
for the baby that was her.
I remember her pink skin, red hair,
perfect suckle.
Now, I will her to open
as the bloom of countless flowers.
My hands caress the black-haired scalp
as it pushes forward.
I wait, but I am not able to rush
the perfection
of this symphony
though the sky and moon
wish it to be so.
work has appeared in Salon.com, I’ll Take Wednesdays, On The Bus, and several anthologies. She holds a BA degree from Antioch University and an MS from the University of Southern California. A midwife, cellist, mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, Tova has studied with poets Jack Grapes, Tresha Faye Haefner, and Taffy Brodesser-Akner. She and her husband live in Los Angeles.
