The birth by Paul Muldoon

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The birth

7 o’clock, the 7th day of the 7th month of the year

no sooner have I got myself up

in lime green scrubs, a sterile cap and mask

and taken my place at the head of the table,

than the windlass-women ply their shears

and gralloch-grub

for a footling foot, then, warming to their task,

haul into the inestimable

realm of apple-blossoms and chanterelles and damsons

and eel-spears.

and foxes and the general hubbub of inkies and gennets and kickapoos

with their lemnisks  or peeekaboo quiffs of russian sable

and tallow unctuous vernix;

into the realm of the widgin

the phew or yellowpull, not the zizzen,

Dorothy Aoife Corolets Muldoon

I watch through floods of tears

as they give her a quick rub-a-dub

and whisk her off to the nursery,

then check their staple guns for staples.

 

Paul Muldoon

 

 

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