December Baby

This is a poem in four parts, dealing with childbirth, and the joys and pains that come with that. Though they are not graphic or explicit, they do deal with intense topics, so be forewarned.

December Baby

I.

The children of the winter sky

fall in flurries, fall slow,

fall peaceful, fall slow,

like the leaves that fell before them,

now they fall, so that new kingdoms can rise

of dandelions and desert poppies,

snow flurries hurry before oncoming spring.

My Oncoming Spring, my little

Snow King, you come

with the snow, you come to herald

the coming light and love

of Spring and we wait

breathless

for your first breaths and

rosy cheeks and I can’t wait

to show you roses in spring,

to show you the roses of spring you will bring

Spring to us. So strange

how everything changes

when you take that little breath 

it is the springtime of 

your life, you are the springtime of my life,

my little Oncoming Spring. 

December Baby 

II.

They spent months finding the perfect gift;

it’s wrapped in gold now, beneath the pine

and the tinsel shivers

and the oven fills the room with cranberry

smells, they bake bread to fight off the cold

as the sky drops it’s flurries of snowy tears.

She asks who will tear

the golden paper off of that perfect present;

her husband’s says his fingers are numb and cold

from stuffing the still-frozen turkey with pine-

like rosemary leaves and cranberries

and he stands by the fire and shivers.

She wants to hold him, to stop his shivering

but instead begins to weep

and doesn’t notice that the cranberry

bread is burning, she is not present

enough to notice things like that, she pines

for the end to take her into the frozen ground.

Her husband tries to shield her from the cold

but she is still shivering

and refuses to sweep up the falling pine

needles, which the tree drops like tears

all over the golden present

until that golden present is deeply buried.

How do you recover from having buried

your only child in the frozen ground?

She struggles to still be present

for her husband, but she’s dancing

between determination and tears

and she longs to be the one buried in a box of pine. 

She sits beneath the brightly decorated pine

hoping that the needles will bury 

her too, like her despair has with tears,

buried her deep in the cold.

but her husband brings a shivering

candle to light the room while he unwraps the present.

This present his wife wants to bury in pine,

he shivers to think of it rotting in the ground;

he will not let the cold tear them apart.

December Baby

III.

If I wept, would you let me remember

that sweet almost December,

that sweet almost December

when I almost was a mother.

If I wept, would you let me know

how he would have felt, rocking deep and 

slow, my sweet almost baby

in that sweet almost December, rocking slow.

If I had wept when they killed my baby

my sweet, my almost, my baby,

when I almost was a mother,

when I almost could have been a mother

but instead I was a monster,

if I had wept, would I remember

the flutter of his heartbeat,

the pounding of his small feet

as I rocked him, deep and slow

in the cold clinic white walls,

as I rocked away my conscience

deep and slow.

Would I have forgiven him for being

a surprise, unwanted baby,

would I have forgiven him for being

my sweet December baby...

If I had wept, would I have noticed

his pounding fists and heartbeats

pounding on my ribcage, begging me to let him

be my precious baby, my sweet December baby.

December Baby

IV.

I am breathless, as I wait.

Your father’s hand crushes mine.

The weight of all these years makes me forget

that I wipe these happy tears with frozen fingers,

I don’t feel them anymore, I only feel

the empty hollow in my arms where you will be

soon, soon (not soon enough).

My sister-in-law hands me a cup 

of soggy coffee, I suppose I’ll need caffeine

soon, but now my heart is racing to the beat

of your little heartbeats on the monitor, 

they’re so quick! Your birth-mother

is fighting so hard to bring you to me.

Never forget, Little One, that she did that for you,

fought through a cold, long Christmas night

without your birth-father by her side,

only us, basically strangers, here to tell her

it’s okay, she’s doing great, just breath now, 

and she does, and there is joy and pain

in her tears as your cries join her’s and she hands

your wriggling form to me so you can see

me, your Mommy! (How strange that is to say)!

Author's Note

These poems are not autobiographical (meaning that none of these actually happened to me, but are based on the experiences of others), so please don't be scared to criticize. I won't take any comments personally. Also, please keep in mind that these are "empathetical" poems in that I was simply trying to put myself in the shoes of others and try to imagine how they felt, so it is quite possible that I failed horribly or was completely off the mark. Please let me know what you think! I tried to write each of them in distinctly different styles as well as different voices. I'm curious if you think that worked, or if it just makes the collection feel disjointed? Thanks for reading! :)