after shower scribbles

the room is laden with flame-retardant jumpsuits,
ribbons, coloured paper in crumpled piles and the child
is swimming in her cervix as we speak, its candied
feet pressing against her ribs in invitation: one she is
anxious to accept surrounded, though she is, by
unassembled furniture, the estrogen-filled laughs
of mothers and childhood friends attempting to soothe
the last of many uncertainties...we talk, as me are meant
to, about the incompetence of men, the wonders of
obstetrics and the inevitability of epidurals. the wine
remains undrunk, a few good bottles sacrificed
on the altar of sisterhood and solidarity. sandwiches
are devoured by anxious mouths as lists are compiled
and what an apt prelude this affair seems to be as we
wait all too impatiently for the sound of the tympany,
the applause, and at long last the announcement...

congratulations, evie!