In Utero

In Utero 

somehow, in some ways,

it has managed to survive—

papas grass in the snow              

                                                                matsuo basho

It’s said, I've imagined, that a womb is a radio

receiver, or a pregnant liquid music

box, wound and let to dance, wound and let

to dance.  Each key tightens to release the sighs

in the pool of a reflection generous,

nausea’s little punt, sometimes so

unmoored it drifts out to the end

of the rope, the corkscrew worm

planted deep in her, deep in him, as tuned

as an orchestral oboe.  Reception is clear  

on most days in his sea as clean as green tea

whose first leaves are given to the Shogun

with, I know, geisha grace.  They

are hand rolled, these teas, and dried tight

as his mother’s day hair, a French knot

at the back, and then her pin, it’s little

red bird painted at the tip, an antenna

absorbing the world’s waves, taking them in

to the root of the hair, past the eyes

the jaw its companion throat, straight

for the hara, conscious fluid

conductor and into his fetal sleep.  Then

like that dried tea, it’s what shocks it flat

on its face that makes it drinkable

or piss, the boiling water pour, baby

you can’t see it but someone’s handing you

a cup you can’t refuse:

the windshield’s full view is black now

beneath the truck your mama screamed at

(that noise you opened your eyes to)

and beneath the truck, in the snow she'd

just held her tongue out to, twisted her hair

against that pin in, and laughed to feel

your six month’s kick.  In the center

of the road your grandmother didn't make

it, your father…

It’s a weight that crushes skulls.

It’s a birth canal you’ll never pass through,

your radio’s gone

to static.   Maybe that gracious geisha

is singing to you now, you alone,

in the skin of your comma’d mother.  Maybe

her radio only picks up

stations that meditate the water,

that cut through sirens, ventilators, brain

surgeons and their third plunge in

to her swelling skull.  You ask:  Will this hurt?

She says: A little.  A little pinch.  Are you sure?

As sure as I am of snow.  As sure as I am

of radios.  Let's tune to something soft.  Something from before.

Tea.  Don’t let her

rush out the door.  Who cares

if you’re late.  Who cares.  There’s all the time

in the world.  I’ll wait.