Untitled - Azam Abidov - poet and translator

Last night, draped
in starched sterile greens,
she clutched at straining bars
under the harsh lights
of an antiseptic cubicle
eerily quiet. It woke
to her small sharp screams.
Her waters broke
as a fuzzy head slid out
with its wet waxy vernix.
Her tears were sounds
scrabbling at the hollow
of my throat, bird wings
brushing against glass panes.
Today we look at each other
across this expanse of clean sheets,
laughter tumbling out of our
quick wrists: splayed fingers,
open palms. Her fingers
touch her heart, circle the air.
I hear the burst of wings.
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