Close to the Breast

 The push. The pull. The light. A breathing tot. 
 The piercing suction, shock. Hand squeezing. Fraught.
  
 A clamp. A tug. A snap. The bones detach.
 An arm. A leg. Two arms. Two legs. A crack.
  
 A pricking prod; then, sucking needle sucks.
 A Life dissolves: the womb, a mire of muck.
  
 A babe wrapped tight in clothe. He’s safe. Yes, safe.
 The tubes. The clamps. His time? Not yet. He waits.
  
 Should not all life lie safe close to the breast?
 Is this the cost for Self, for Health? Progress? 

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