Don't tell me you weren't happy for
a reason to ditch that gray womb
of your cubicle that Friday morning.
You said you knew it was time
but I think you were just saying
that, 'cause I was two weeks early–
–the last time I was early
for anything. It took thirty six hours before
they went in to get me, you said.
They sliced me out of that sauna of a womb
with cold metal, but you still said I did it on my time,
two o'clock on a Saturday afternoon.
I guess I just like that time of day – Remember our afternoon
walks down Main Street on Sundays, after the early
mass? And don't think I'll forget all the times
it was still dark out when I'd wake for
school, and you'd wake too, from the goose-down womb
of your comforter, because you couldn't sleep, you said
and I knew that wasn't true, but I said
nothing, because you poured better cereal. At night,
you'd wrap me restless in your nest, your womb
of limbs, and I’d lay there into the early
hours of a Monday morning, back before
I knew how to make myself fall asleep–a simpler time.
I had a habit of acting like you were wasting my time
and even I'm impressed with all the cruel words I could say.
You had a habit of loving me anyway, for
I was a part of you once, I guess that's why. You'd kiss me goodnight
on a Tuesday through my ice block walls, then I'd wake up early
to make you breakfast, a sorry attempt to fill your wounded womb
on Wednesday. Oh, to crawl back into your womb
where I can float the day away, kill time
the way we all did once, in our earliest
hours, inside the safe walls of our mother's body. I'd say
good morning with a gentle kick, and you'd whisper goodnight
with your hands on our walls. What did I leave for?
August will be here soon, and in the womb of a summer night
–the warm early hours of the second Thursday–I say we have a toast just
for us, to twenty one years since that lazy afternoon when I took my time.