The Ordinary and the Blessed

I carried dinner to your door, kissed your children,

and tucked you onto the couch with a crocheted

blanket and a heating pad.  I told the kids

you had a tummy ache, and that satisfied them. 

After dinner the boys sat on the floor

beside you, playing cards and watching

television, while I sat on the end of the sofa,

rubbing your feet and waiting.

The children went to bed at nine, and we continued

our vigil in the darkened living room, not unlike

those nights when we waited for your labor to progress    

and those tiny faces to come into the light.

Somewhere in the middle of those dark hours

you went into the bathroom, and disgorged

the tiny life that had been growing inside you    

in plumes of blood and clots of thick red earth

and then you went upstairs to kiss your children:

the ordinary and the blessed, sleeping in your bed.