written in a call room.
every time you moan I flinch
you writhe. twist. keen
low and deep and powerful
“It’s primal” they tell me
“It’s beauty” they coo
so why am I watching you?
why are my hands clenched
brown gloves cinched over a green gown
sweat sliding down the back of my neck
matched perfectly with the drops sliding down yours
i met you three hours ago
and now my voice joins the concert
“push” we sing
“you’re doing fantastic” we cheer
does this help you, I wonder?
do our voices blend and soothe and move you to new heights?
or will you just remember a room full of faces
eyes trained down, waiting for the crown of a proud head
the catch of a shoulder
three hands looking for split skin and warm blood
they tell me that birth is a holy thing
am I here to be a pilgrim?
or am I desecrating this room, this space, this time
with my eager hands
but unwilling spirit
thank you for your grace with me
for letting me learn at the alter of your womb
for ignoring the way my shoulders tense
and the hesitancy of my hand on your back
drowning in a flood of emotion
but i’ll keep looking for land