Line of blood spills out like syrup

a split instant following the surgeon's scalpel

just under my wife's swollen belly.


She lies there in twelve-hour labor stupor

arms stretched out on the operating room's crucifix table.


Small inverted Christmas tree angel of a woman,

saintly, delirious, and prayerful.


I don't look down at her face –

the blood and what follows hold my eyes wide open.


Our daughter is lifted from the wet cavity cut across my wife.


No blood on her;

it is all on her mother.


Sound swirls around us,

many voices loudly in a hurry to be heard:

numbers and words thick

with terminology.


My daughter, in given statistics,

a weight and a rating,

by these loud people.


A procedure to them,

a miracle to me.

Michael A. Griffith

Michael A. Griffith began writing poetry as he recovered from a life-changing injury. His poems, essays, and non-fiction articles have appeared in many print and online publications and anthologies. He resides and teaches near Princeton, NJ. His first book of poetry is slated to appear later this year.    


  1. Yes, 'they' do it all the time. But it is a miracle to every parent!

  2. Elephants nice touch on visual metaphor of child rearing. This poem is the glory of parenthood.

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