all day spring rain
earthworms winding their way
the course of a vein
This time we take a little more time when the contractions start. No rupture of the membranes. We arrive at the hospital and the nurse explains (as she did last time), this may take a while, and why don’t we go home again. Instead, I grab my husband firmly by the arm and we walk in circles in the entrance hall. On the second round I have to pause, breathe, “Let’s go back.”
Waiting room. This may take a while. The nurse, on one of her brief visits, hands my husband a cloth bandage to pull over my belly for the contraction recorder and rushes out again, but I snatch it from his hand. It lands on the floor with a loud thud. “I do NOT need that!” She comes back and briefly looks me in the face. Then she leads me straight into the delivery room. Just like last time, it is quick, painfully quick. As soon as he is born, the midwife’s right arm makes two rapid movements. He’s crying, he’s healthy, I am in tears the whole time. Later my husband tells me the umbilical cord was wrapped twice around his neck.
still half asleep
the first sound
a redstart
(she/they; born 1976) is a disabled intuitive artist and poet, known online as pi & anne aka [at]pi.and.anne. She lives in Germany with her family and two rabbits. Her art aims to trace the filters humans apply, as how we see things says often more about us than about the thing itself. Her heart beats for minimalist art, found poetry, and mixed-media collages. In her spare time, you can find her knitting in public, drinking coffee, writing on her phone, sharing hugs, and baking pancakes (her solution for everything).
Her poetry has been published in Kingfisher Journal, Wales Haiku Journal, The Haibun Journal, Whiptail Journal, The Other Bunny, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Pan Haiku Review, Poetry Pea Journal and Podcast, Failed Haiku, Prune Juice Journal, Frogpond Journal, and Presence Haiku Journal. She placed second in the Marlene Mountain Memorial Haiku Contest 2023, organised by FemkuMag.
