I spend a lot of time thinking about the nurse who wiped the blood off my legs after I gave birth. I like to picture her doing other loving useful tasks—deboning a chicken for her neighborhood block party or wiping bird shit off commemorative plaques. Then she’s home, rubbing lotion on her feet and declining phone calls.
                      I think the cloth was warm and the blood was mine. I think we talked about how the baby cried before her body was out, how I was momentarily a being with two loud heads.