Sean Swain Poet I do not know?

The Price of Oil, Part I

The nurse ordered her to push, push, push
in her best proper voice 
and linen balled in red fists knotted
and sweat falls from red face knotted 
while Billy, head first, tugged and yanked by nurse's proper hands, 
emerges, gently laid upon the blood soaked sand 
motionless in the sulfur haze, almost well-behaved 
amongst the rifle clatter and bewildered screams - 
get down! get down! get down! 
while Billy breathes slowly, undisturbed, 
his eyes closed with new mom 
gently caressing matted, cark curls, 
her fingers, no longer knotted, extended,
Billy's tiny hands and infant fingers 
grip the plastic ribbing 
around the rifle barrel smeared in stickiness that flows out 
from below Billy and onto sand, puddling, his lips chapped and parted, 
suckling as new mom exhausted weeps 
in relief of two arms and two legs and everything okay 
as she holds him, hurting for him, 
everything that might happen, 
everything that will happen, 
and she drifts off to slumber, 
mother and child peacefully spent 
in soft pretty colors 
and the soft murmur of the television as the sedan 
with government plates at the curb 
and a Marine in dress blues (Oh, God) stands plastic in the doorway 
and uses his best proper voice (Oh God, not Billy, Oh God) 
to regretfully tell her, 
and uses surprised hands to catch her when her legs 
regretfully cannot hold her 
and she sobs on the floor like a mother who outlived her son, 
exhausted as the day Billy was born.
Screw this war.

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