Birth Story

It began with an incision to my mom’s perineum. Crowning did not indicate royalty. The nurse tried to stop him from entering her with scissors. Poor guy, it was the middle of the night. He had eighteen holes to play. Noon tee time. Unmutilated, deep, round, empty holes awaited his balls to enter. Without protest. Where scoring is consensual.

Ten minutes later, she pushed all six pounds, seven ounces of my scrawny body out of her lacerated hole.

That’s where it ended. With my ten fingers, ten toes, and ten holes. And her ten stitches.

In Praise of Anesthesia

I will my alien legs onto the gurney. “You feel something?” asks a nurse, tapping the thin helmet of my belly.


I gave the litany of women with our face /
all the ghost-blame.