Lift me to the ceiling--
a whale swimming through air--
exposed belly containing twice the life.
Grab the monitors.
Push the medicine.
Labor at 30 weeks is no joke.
Hurry, take off your clothes
Roll to the side and back again.
When was the last wave you rode?
Nurses rush around me,
flowing and eddying around my bed,
taking notes, getting me ready for the doctor.
Helpless. Exposed.
I turn to your blue eyes,
hoping to find safe water.
Looking to the one
who knows me,
who transformed me
into a creature who swims
through the air in hospital rooms.
But the blue is cloudy with
the darkness of truth.
Nothing he can do.
Nothing I can do.
Lower me down,
tie me to the bed,
dam the waves.
Inject steroids,
place a line or two,
slow drip.
Wait and see
if the girls in me
want to swim through
the air
like their mother.
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