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She caught babies in winter,

laid fish to dry in summer,

 

was eager to sop blood, guts

of anything pierced that needed

 

her. When the first baby came,

she fished him into her arms,

 

wiping his face with her thumb,

so enraptured by the sudden touch

 

of blood that she didn’t see

the twin who slithered out

 

as if on pelvic fin, hidden

by afterbirth, cradled in placenta

 

into the Old Port salt beef bucket,

destined for the greedy harbour

 

to be released, returning

to something wet, smelling of home.

 

The bucket started howling on the walk

to the water, cold night wind

 

waking small lungs. The father

looked down. As he rubbed

 

his baby’s eyes, sound broke from him, too

like a blow in the nautical chorus.

The Midwife

Maggie Burton

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