After thirty-six hours on the table, Much drama and suffering, all in Retrospect ridiculous and trivial, You were pulled backward into light
By a resident with a pair of pliers. “Christ,” your mother was thinking, “My daughter is about to be delivered By Katie Holmes.” Ms. Holmes, or
Whoever, did a bang-up job, not even Bruising your head, let alone as I Worried tearing it off. Apparently You are made of something stretchy.
You have your father’s hair, your Mother’s nose, and the devil’s own Black and sticky dung. I promise You nothing: each hour will be yours.