The Tale of My Birth
Hot as hell, emotions fire the flames,
Nervous about meeting doctors, nurses,
Curtain separates them from congregation,
The veil is not torn in two, but steamy adulation,
Courts their friendship sessions to distance,
Bible fanatic from mum, with a secular pretence:
Stationed to obey that mile that you go,
Faithful to womb child who does overthrow,
That divine validation of mundane everyday life,
Which never does blot his copybook, he’s your invisible wife,
Just because nothing bad happens, then he’s loving,
To be a feature of your relationships and thinking,
So good to give you a furtherer of your animations,
So fine to set converts and following by time within your devotions:
Baby born, and the first thing they said was Jesus!
But I did adjust like a jet, right arm spasm, religion to suss,
Because i had not related perfectly to my mum at all in her beauty,
By getting into a tizzy, a fix about her vaginal cavity:
The umbilical chord did suffocate around my neck,
Three times, and three times to many, ‘cos i hit the deck,
Put in an incubator, a machine my life to sustain,
Where i didn’t depend on maternal caresses to obtain,
That blooming continuation that does greatly assure you of your future,
You expectations, your understandings and boundaries to nurture;
The machine of oxygen and warmth did suffice,
To love this new born child as cold as ice,
To spiritual things and to worlds unknown,
By humankind who only know hell when it’s thrown;
And as I did lurk in my hospital bedroom, or ward,
Like a businessman who is playing the sure investment card:
I wished so much that black book to just disappear,
As it only wrought despair, anxiety and tumultuous fear;
My parents friends, stone cold as delinquent thieves,
Prayed though those days as they sang “Bringing In The Sheaves,”
Whilst appendices of nurses added that they’d do,
Convincing my parents, including doctor-trained dad, that I’d pull through,
They just read the bible to me, over and over,
Through glass ventilator, that separator which did cover,
Happy as chuck, pleased as punch and relaxed enough, in that clever machine,
I clearly didn’t see what they did mean,
Because I was dressed in the NHS, nothing less,
Never this sin to render or confess.
Copyright © Dominique Webb | Year Posted 2016
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