The idea of birth,
cracking pain,
pulsing rivers of blood
and widening vessels
where
gushing streams are
rushing out of me,
out of my tiny,
sacred cave
Doesn’t scare me.

Whether she’ll be seen
or heard
or even acknowledged
with a nod
is what distresses
me
Not dresses
or tresses
but how she’ll be addressed
causes me
alarm

And whether my maternal instint
will be instinctive enough
to keep her, shape her,
sharpen her
keeps me
up at night

I worry that her father’s height
won’t carry far
because her mother’s brown skin
will communicate
an indigenous freight
about some untrue inferiority
that she’ll start to believe
herself

I worry that her half-ness
will split her into pieces
and drown in weakness
forcing her to spend her
time needling her fingers,
lingering
to sew herself back together
when she was never broke
to begin with

The idea of her is miraculous,
a flickering light yet to be;
but what the world may do to her,
may convince her,
terrorizes me.