Consuela and Sean
Consuela and Sean
Through the nursery glass
Carlos Montero peeks at Consuela,
his twelfth, in the arms of a nurse.
Blood from the uterus
bright in black hair,
Consuela is raw, bawling.
The nurse takes Consuela
away to be washed as Carlos
digs deeps in his denims,
locks elbows, gleams,
turns to me. I feel odd
in a suit and a tie as I
wait to see Sean, our first.
When the nurse brings Sean to the window,
Carlos Montero swings me around,
swipes a bullfighter’s pass,
throws his arms in the air and shouts, “Ole!”
Suddenly I am as happy as he.
Donal Mahoney
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