CORD
It’s tricky to understand the relation
between the boy that rockets my days
and the baby that balloons my midsection.
Between the father who falters in a distant location
and the brother who deliberately strays.
Between the push of the conduit, the live construction
inside, which feeds a fetus after conception,
and the pull that sucks meconium away.
These links so tricky but not like, I think, incantations
such as precede red scarf, white bird transmutation—
no gloved, swift, skilled hands at play.
Only, once everyone inside tied—intimate communication:
now, everyone outside untied—yet roped by correlation.
Your daughter, sister, mother. Your covey.
Yours as in federal, wide rights, packed implications.
For my baby to exit my womb, I’ll require a c-section—
gloved, swift, skilled hands will fray
a literal cord, an umbilical connection.
What remains is so tricky, fabricated words of relation.
Ana María Caballero