Birthing
Katey Nicosia

His feet extend from the tire swing,
a tail forming a Q from the O.
Sitting in the hole, he fills it
to a whole, like a hand and then a fist.

Dangling there, he is the ring finger,
the tongue of the kiss,
and the circus dog encircled in fire.

From far away he is a pendant,
and the tree's bloom is the head of a girl.
He can see down her shirt
into the valley where pebbles fall,
Edelweiss sprouting off both palisades.

A little cottage he calls home,
sits on the left peak like a cherry. He touches
it with an extended leg and pointed toe.

And when his mother calls,
he will slip through the tire's yawn,
toboggan down the canyon
of two cupped hands,
until he exits at the other end
where there are lights and blood.

© Katey Nicosia