I remember, I remember the room where you were born,
The whiteness of it, all white, four white, walls
And clean as the first light of that summer day
When you came. In England they grab gas and toss
With pain. Your room was foreign, quiet and white.
I was shaved white to sail each wave of pain.
How I surfed through it
And how the skill of cresting and coming through
Made sport of your arrival.
The Belgian midwife said I did it well,
Such a perfect primitive performance.
I think she was pleased when you, baby,
Came and needed attention.
Even we prizewinners
Were taken aback
At our prowess.