Our midwife told us to have
a song ready to sing just in case
our daughter needs resuscitation
after birth. A song to call her in
while they work the physical:
the new and hesitant muscle, lungs
delicate as orchids. She said
it should be a song our baby knows,
heard before from inside
the softened bower,
sifted through skin like sunlight
sinking to the bottom of a pond.
How naive I have been -- the many
times I have said, art saves lives
and never meant like this.
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