…with more strivings, but drew the child leasurely
with the crochet.
—Percivall Willughby (1596–1685)
By the time I was called for, the child
had lain too long in the womb parched
and drained of all humidity. I found
the woman’s belly still as stone, ointments
placed on her body to cure the scent from the child
cracking inside her. Hastily I compelled her to take
a liquor of milk and pepper, and busied
the midwives with warming bricks in the fire
to place at the poor woman’s feet. I bade her
close her eyes to sleep, and thus she set her head
upon the sheet but could not submit. The metal hook
warmed in my hand. I saw her eyes grow troubled
and I shut the door. In the dream I have of this moment
a ball of yarn is tangled deep inside the womb
and when I pull, pinned to the yarn comes a child’s ear
like a wrinkled dress on a clothesline. And then
a pair of lips that ride the length of the thread
and into my hand like two birds perched upon a branch.
Like this I pull again, pull until I see I am stitching
a child into the air warm as a crocheted blanket, and when
it is finished I place it upon her bed, and she looks
upon the bundle wherein lies a tiny wrinkled foot-
print, proving theirs was once a moist union
in which for many months the child swam
and swallowed. And the mother is warmed
and sleeps. And the hook cools. And the mother lives.
from Paper Doll FetusFind it in the library
Copyright © Persea Books 2014
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.
