06-13-2013, 01:09 AM
Note: please don't let the subject matter keep you from offering a technical or aesthetic critique.
Revision 4 (metrical variation/corrections, changed some awkward/regional words, a little more compression:
For months I spied my unborn son; I pressed
a probe to catch his pulse and squinted at
a TV screen. At Lincoln's eighteen-week
fetal exam, too soon, the doctor eyed
a shrouded foot outside his mother's womb.
On a Maternal ER birthing bed,
his mother's water broke. "Just stroke her hair"
the nurses said, "and look away." The wits
I had, the nurses lent, so I obeyed.
I watched and swept tears from his mother's wet
and twisting face, but on my right, and out
of focus, I saw blood on pinkish skin.
Our firstborn son slipped out, too young. He died.
I've since cradled two other sons, but they're
no cure for this regret: During the small
moment that Lincoln lived, before they clamped
his cord and all went numb, I stayed away;
but if he spent his final, futile breaths
feeling a doctor's cold, latex embrace—
God damn! I should've reached to where he died
between those steel stirrups, and laid a hand
that said, "We love you Lincoln, go in peace."
What now to touch? The sky-blue newborn clothes
he'll never fit? Prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.
Revision 3:
For weeks, I spied my unborn son. I pressed
a probe to catch his pulse and squinted at
a TV screen. During a growth exam,
the doctor peeked to gauge his mother's womb.
A shrouded foot stuck out its door, too soon.
On a Maternal ER birthing bed,
his mother's water broke. "Just stroke her hair"
the nurses said, "and look away." The wits
I had, the nurses lent, so I obeyed.
Christine and I, we wove our hands. I swept
her cheeks and fixed my eyes upon her wet
and twisting face, but to the right and out
of focus, I saw blood on pinkish skin.
Our firstborn son slipped out, too young. He died.
I've since caressed two other sons, but they're
no cure for this regret: Inside that speck
of time that Lincoln felt, before they clamped
his cord and all went numb, I stayed away.
For what? A "sterile field"? But if I think
the doctor's hands were there to work and not
to love— God damn! I should've stuck my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups where
he died and fixed a hand upon my son
to say, "We love you Lincoln, go in peace."
What now to clutch, a newborn onesie that
will never fit? Prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.
Revision 2 (billy meter fix):
I had an unborn son. At eighteen weeks
the doctor peeked to gauge his mother's womb.
A shrouded foot stuck out its door, too soon.
On a Maternal ER birthing bed,
his mother's water broke. "Just stroke her hair"
the nurses said, "and look away." The wits
I had, the nurses lent, so I obeyed.
Christine and I, we wove our hands. I swept
her cheeks and kept my eyes fixed on her wet
and twisting face, but to the right and out
of focus, I saw blood on pinkish skin.
My firstborn son slipped out, too young. He died.
I've since caressed two other sons, but they're
no cure for this regret: Inside that speck
of time that Lincoln felt, before they clamped
his cord and all went numb, I kept away.
For what, a "sterile field"? But if I think
the doctor's hands were there to work and not
to love— God damn! I should've stuck my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups where
he died and fixed a hand upon my son
to say, "We love you Lincoln, go in peace."
What now to clutch, a newborn onesie that
will never fit? Prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.
Revision 1 (blank verse/minor word changes):
I had an unborn son. At eighteen weeks
the doctor peeked to gauge his mother's womb.
A shrouded foot stuck out its door, too soon.
On a Maternal ER birthing bed,
his mother's water broke. "Just stroke her hair"
the nurses said, "and look away." The wits
I had, the nurses lent, so I obeyed.
Christine and I, we wove our hands. I swept
her cheeks and kept my eyes fixed on her wet
and twisting face, but to the right and out
of focus, I saw blood on pinkish skin.
My firstborn son slipped out, too young. He died.
I've since caressed two other sons, but they're
no cure for this regret: Inside that speck
of time that Lincoln felt, before they clamped
his cord and all went numb, I kept away.
For what, a "sterile field"? But if I think
the doctor's hands were there to work and not
to love— God damn! I should've stuck my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups where
he died and fixed a hand upon my son
to say, "Daddy loves you, go in peace."
What now to clutch, a newborn onesie that
will never fit? Prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.
Original version:
For eighteen weeks, I had an unborn son.
At an exam, the doctor scanned
his mother's womb. A veiled foot
stuck out its open door.
Too soon.
Racing my wife through city blocks,
each stop sign seemed to take an hour.
At the Maternal ER, upon a birthing bed,
her water broke.
"Just gently stroke her hair",
the nurses said, "and look away."
The only sense I had was what they lent,
so I obeyed.
Christine and I, we grasped
each other's hands. I tried to keep my eyes
locked on her wet and twisting face,
but to one side, just out of focus, brightly lit,
I saw blood on pinkish skin.
The boy slipped out, too young.
He died.
I've since loved two other sons,
but they’re no cure for this regret:
In that bit of time that Lincoln lived
to feel and maybe hear,
before they cut the cord and all went numb—
I looked away.
I did what I was told. For what?
A "sterile field"?
But if I think the nurses' hands
were there to work and not to love—
God damn!
I should've shoved my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups
where he died
and put a hand upon my son
to say, "Daddy loves you, go in peace."
What now to touch?
A onesie that will never fit
or prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.
Revision 4 (metrical variation/corrections, changed some awkward/regional words, a little more compression:
For months I spied my unborn son; I pressed
a probe to catch his pulse and squinted at
a TV screen. At Lincoln's eighteen-week
fetal exam, too soon, the doctor eyed
a shrouded foot outside his mother's womb.
On a Maternal ER birthing bed,
his mother's water broke. "Just stroke her hair"
the nurses said, "and look away." The wits
I had, the nurses lent, so I obeyed.
I watched and swept tears from his mother's wet
and twisting face, but on my right, and out
of focus, I saw blood on pinkish skin.
Our firstborn son slipped out, too young. He died.
I've since cradled two other sons, but they're
no cure for this regret: During the small
moment that Lincoln lived, before they clamped
his cord and all went numb, I stayed away;
but if he spent his final, futile breaths
feeling a doctor's cold, latex embrace—
God damn! I should've reached to where he died
between those steel stirrups, and laid a hand
that said, "We love you Lincoln, go in peace."
What now to touch? The sky-blue newborn clothes
he'll never fit? Prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.
Revision 3:
For weeks, I spied my unborn son. I pressed
a probe to catch his pulse and squinted at
a TV screen. During a growth exam,
the doctor peeked to gauge his mother's womb.
A shrouded foot stuck out its door, too soon.
On a Maternal ER birthing bed,
his mother's water broke. "Just stroke her hair"
the nurses said, "and look away." The wits
I had, the nurses lent, so I obeyed.
Christine and I, we wove our hands. I swept
her cheeks and fixed my eyes upon her wet
and twisting face, but to the right and out
of focus, I saw blood on pinkish skin.
Our firstborn son slipped out, too young. He died.
I've since caressed two other sons, but they're
no cure for this regret: Inside that speck
of time that Lincoln felt, before they clamped
his cord and all went numb, I stayed away.
For what? A "sterile field"? But if I think
the doctor's hands were there to work and not
to love— God damn! I should've stuck my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups where
he died and fixed a hand upon my son
to say, "We love you Lincoln, go in peace."
What now to clutch, a newborn onesie that
will never fit? Prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.
Revision 2 (billy meter fix):
I had an unborn son. At eighteen weeks
the doctor peeked to gauge his mother's womb.
A shrouded foot stuck out its door, too soon.
On a Maternal ER birthing bed,
his mother's water broke. "Just stroke her hair"
the nurses said, "and look away." The wits
I had, the nurses lent, so I obeyed.
Christine and I, we wove our hands. I swept
her cheeks and kept my eyes fixed on her wet
and twisting face, but to the right and out
of focus, I saw blood on pinkish skin.
My firstborn son slipped out, too young. He died.
I've since caressed two other sons, but they're
no cure for this regret: Inside that speck
of time that Lincoln felt, before they clamped
his cord and all went numb, I kept away.
For what, a "sterile field"? But if I think
the doctor's hands were there to work and not
to love— God damn! I should've stuck my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups where
he died and fixed a hand upon my son
to say, "We love you Lincoln, go in peace."
What now to clutch, a newborn onesie that
will never fit? Prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.
Revision 1 (blank verse/minor word changes):
I had an unborn son. At eighteen weeks
the doctor peeked to gauge his mother's womb.
A shrouded foot stuck out its door, too soon.
On a Maternal ER birthing bed,
his mother's water broke. "Just stroke her hair"
the nurses said, "and look away." The wits
I had, the nurses lent, so I obeyed.
Christine and I, we wove our hands. I swept
her cheeks and kept my eyes fixed on her wet
and twisting face, but to the right and out
of focus, I saw blood on pinkish skin.
My firstborn son slipped out, too young. He died.
I've since caressed two other sons, but they're
no cure for this regret: Inside that speck
of time that Lincoln felt, before they clamped
his cord and all went numb, I kept away.
For what, a "sterile field"? But if I think
the doctor's hands were there to work and not
to love— God damn! I should've stuck my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups where
he died and fixed a hand upon my son
to say, "Daddy loves you, go in peace."
What now to clutch, a newborn onesie that
will never fit? Prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.
Original version:
For eighteen weeks, I had an unborn son.
At an exam, the doctor scanned
his mother's womb. A veiled foot
stuck out its open door.
Too soon.
Racing my wife through city blocks,
each stop sign seemed to take an hour.
At the Maternal ER, upon a birthing bed,
her water broke.
"Just gently stroke her hair",
the nurses said, "and look away."
The only sense I had was what they lent,
so I obeyed.
Christine and I, we grasped
each other's hands. I tried to keep my eyes
locked on her wet and twisting face,
but to one side, just out of focus, brightly lit,
I saw blood on pinkish skin.
The boy slipped out, too young.
He died.
I've since loved two other sons,
but they’re no cure for this regret:
In that bit of time that Lincoln lived
to feel and maybe hear,
before they cut the cord and all went numb—
I looked away.
I did what I was told. For what?
A "sterile field"?
But if I think the nurses' hands
were there to work and not to love—
God damn!
I should've shoved my arm
through all that fuss between the stirrups
where he died
and put a hand upon my son
to say, "Daddy loves you, go in peace."
What now to touch?
A onesie that will never fit
or prints inked by little feet?
Too late. He'll never be that close again.