On my beach
Is a maternity room
Where poems are born.
As both mother and midwife
I exist in the middle space;
The balance
Between gestating ideas
And the arrival of
Living words.
I don’t create truth.
I painfully push it out,
Cut it from my body,
Wipe the blood from it,
Measure its length and weight,
Count its toes,
Swaddle it in a blanket of words,
Then lay it carefully in your arms.
It wails for attention.
I don’t know my poems’ fathers,
I say that life screwed me.
I’m not alone in that. Life sleeps around.
Still, Truth is always legitimate,
Just not always convenient.
Or comfortable. It kicks in my belly.
I have no choice but to speak
Or have my insides pummeled
By a poem denied birth.
Poets know
The gift and responsibility
We bear on the birthing stool.
Our children are noisy
Voices you might not want to hear.
They are necessary nonetheless.
Who else will help you
Rejoice, grieve, or find
Your misplaced humanity?
On my beach
I cry in labor.
Waves clothed in hospital scrubs
Of white and blue,
Nurse my pain and wipe
My blood and tears.
Another child is born;
The air trembles
With words of new life.
j.w. McKinleyville, 11/10/25
