Unbearable, she says,
The two of us perched on the edge of the red couch.
Her baby is in the other room,
And his small noises float through the open doorway.
She’s smiling, but my body is still
Held fast by the grip in her gaze.
Out in the yard, another lamb is being born.
The farmer stands off to one side
Watching the taught belly of the ewe rise and fall,
Reading the redness painted on her skin.
This ewe is young, and her cries grow.
He moves in, shifting the pain, twisting the small black body.
I envy those so willing
to dirty their hands in the slick waters of discomfort.
We walk out into the yard
eyes only for the tongue licking wet curls.
“Oh, mama,” she sighs, “Good job.”
Her husband wraps his arm around her shoulders,
Pulling her soft body into his,
chin on her head.