It arrived in the coal hours of the morning:
98 words each pink and darling, 12 lines, 6 tiny commas.
The labor was hard and fitful, it lasted 31 years.
Every poem takes all of your life to write.
In place of an epidural there was wine,
sour red mouthfuls and the threat of a cheap headache.
It is brother to a drizzle of other poems,
some of which use the word cinnamon, sister
to rhymeless alphabets
that are always trying to spell hunger.
The mother is proud. It will be loved
until the night buds another idea.