I was there when her vagina opened.(Clica-hi per mostrar-ho. Compte: pot anticipar-te quin és el desenllaç de l'obra.)
We were all there: her mother, her husband, and I,
and the nurse from the Ukraine with her whole hand
up there in her vagina feeling and turning with her rubber
glove as she talked casually to us—like she was turning on a loaded faucet.
I was there in the room when the contractions made her crawl on all fours,
made unfamiliar moans leak out of her pores and still there after hours when she just screamed suddenly
wild, her arms striking at the electric air.
I was there when her vagina changed
from a shy sexual hole
to an archaeological tunnel, a sacred vessel,
a Venetian canal, a deep well with a tiny stuck child inside,
waiting to be rescued.
I saw the colors of her vagina. They changed.
Saw the bruised broken blue
the blistering tomato red
the gray pink, the dark;
saw the blood like perspiration along the edges
saw the yellow, white liquid, the shit, the clots
pushing out all the holes, pushing harder and harder,
saw through the hole, the baby's head
scratches of black hair, saw it just there beyond
the bone—a hard round memory, as the nurse from the Ukraine kept turning and turning
her slippery hand.
I was there when each of us, her mother and I, held a leg and spread her wide pushing
with all our strength pushing
and her husband sternly counting, "One, two, three,"
telling her to focus, harder.
We looked into her then.
We couldn't get our eyes out of that place.
We forget the vagina, all of us
what else would explain
our lack of awe, our lack of wonder.
I was there when the doctor
reached in with Alice in Wonderland spoons
and there as her vagina became became a wide operatic mouth
singing with all its strength;
first the little head, then the gray flopping arm,
then the fast
swimming body, swimming quickly into our weeping arms.
I was there later when I just turned and faced her vagina.
I stood and let myself see
her all spread, completely exposed
mutilated, swollen, and torn,
bleeding all over the doctor's hands
who was calmly sewing her there.
I stood, and as I stared, her vagina suddenly
became a wide red pulsing heart.
The heart is capable of sacrifice.
So is the vagina.
The heart is able to forgine and repair.
It can change its shape to let us in.
It can expand to let us out.
So can the vagina.
It can ache for us and stretch for us, die for us
and bleed and bleed us into this difficult, wondrous world.
So can the vagina.
I was there in the room.