Labor of Birth

Labor of Birth

Squeezing the pride from my womb,

filling my head with impending doom.

I try to escape to a happy place,

but the reality of pain I have to face.

The pressure, the pain won’t let me be,

regular and timely waves wash over me.

Earthly angels take their place,

at my back and at my face.

“You are doing good” they tell me, but inside my

head a voice shouts out I’m not okay I want out.

Fear gives way to despair,

burning lungs in need of air.

I’m falling, falling sinking down,

darkness, darkness all around.

A search light finds me in the night,

giving me courage to fight.

Priesthood hands upon my head,

hope and faith replaces dread;

And love flows into me.

The fight, the battle is almost won,

my work and labor almost done.

Grunting and pushing with all my might,

my primal scream into the night.

In the room shouts of joy,

“It’s a beautiful, perfect baby boy.”

My child is laid to rest,

warm and wet upon my breast.

I am powerful, I am strong,

and I will know it from now on!

Michael Cluster

This poem is dedicated to my wife, Twyla, who gave birth to or son at home July 3, 2009