Left Hand Birth

Both my hands are magical--
of course--
but it\'s the left
that\'s been baptised, been born
into a new life,
the left hand curled inward into
a gentle fetal fist
that weathered her contractions, resisted birth
as strongly as any child.

It was my left hand that reached
for the center of her, that was swallowed
by a swollen slippery mouth
gaping just wide enough;
it was those left-hand fingers
that probed, rippling gently
in the primordial sea, that felt the deep echoes
of her moaning.

And then when she had panted her way to the edge
of exhaustion, when
the earthquake shudders slowed
it was the left hand that broke glistening from her flesh,
that writhed wetly into the air
and tasted its chill.

My left hand stretched then and sang.
Every uncurling joint, every damp fingertip
newly awake to magic, every piece
and part of flesh
sang out as if newly born, crying
alleluia!