Chords by Betsy Woods

On this day, I labored

my son Sam, his body tense in

the grip of my blistered womb,

contracting.

I filled temporal forests of alveoli with the slowed rhythms

of breath.

Here, in this space, this breach in time, I was an

entity, an Animal body.

This animal body, Intelligence. I thought, on this day,

here in this space, inside

this breach in time with this

smaller animal body imposing

a will, a will imposed even on his own flesh. (My body grew

a boy, so odd my woman

produced this male child.)

Living/dying all happened – it didn’t matter here.

Male bodies — my brothers’, my father’s — I witness their

transitions.

Here, between the knife and breath that define our visits, I am a witness.

Where does that umbilical nature begin?

Where does it end?

Benjamin wouldn’t leave me.

The garden’s agony streaming through atmospheres pulse;

I found his

limp body, urine in a milk crate, unconscious in his ecstasy. Roommate

delivered goods, got high and

played video games.

Ben threw up in his spit, in his urine. I carried him to the

car — myself his Mary:

“This is my beloved son.”

I drove, adrenaline pulsing prius — Animal body panting into my son’s lungs.

His unconscious body, at the right hand of the Father, holding as organs played out their last tune. This

tin monkey - this thrusted angst

holding on.

The security guard rushed out to fuss, then his own animal body bowed emerging with Ben’s lobbing

head, body infantile in his arms. His eyes dripped into my own palm. (crying on his own cross)

“My momma loves me.” The words dribble from Ben’s mouth. Holy music played in his room.

Functions dimmed - down, slowing to a failed tremble.

People united, last nights of the beloved. How this story

changed is an oddity.

The wills of souls are a simple,-complicated story. Larger than

revelation.

Eyes of brothers’ bleed, father’s breath fades, slighted like a

breeze, that merely mingles,

tinkles and dances among

we earthlier sorts – who still

manage to survive.

Their course is easier — the

path of circles. Curling, looping

circles that cycle into places, those cherishing places

Dance there and

speak of universe,

I am

simpler in form

truer to nature - I am

nature, me you – Our

Us is the womb, the

beat, the today and tomorrow,

whispering ok.

We are born on this day.

The day born inside of us.

The Alpha and Omegas

again, again, again.

Last night, Sam told me my phone didn’t work.

He said, “Take the moon off, so I can call you.”

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Betsy Woods is an award-winning writer, editor, and teacher. Her work has appeared in various journals and reviews throughout North America and Europe. She is the editor of Cornerstone of The Louisville Review, and founder of One Woods Press, editorial (onewoodspress.net). She has an MFA from Spalding University. Woods grew up on the edge of Doubloon Bayou where she listened to alligator's bark. She calls New Orleans, home.