NICU, For Dominic Edit #2.1

[MHenry]

Hi, ellajam,

I am new here and still learning my way around the site.
This is newest poem of yours I could find in my clumsy search.
But you acknowledged my hello post, so I sought you out.

Your poem turned out beautifully. The final title is wonderful. The poem is touching and tender without being cloying. It clearly describes the fear and trepidation parents of a premature child must feel.

I do have one quibble...I realize the contraction of you are into you're is a meter/syllable thing, but I like you are better for this piece. You're is the only contraction in the poem, it comes at a crucial point in the poem, and it feels out of place to me.

Quibbles aside, I love the poem.

Song For An Early Bird (edit 2.3)


As pulse rates spike you're lifted from your caul
and held above a lacerated womb;
we exhale when we hear your raucous bawl.
I count the possibilities of doom
upon your toes, my abacus; barbed lines
on monitors and regulators beep
a sharp cacophony of vital signs.
You dance the limbo of sedated sleep,
machines to graph the flutter of your dreams.
I trace your palm, declare your future grand,
our hopes for you of boyish pranks and schemes
are tightly held in one small grasping hand.
You'll be the death of us, our deepest pride
like any other child, but multiplied.




NICU, for Dominic   Edit #2.2

We wait as you are lifted from your caul
and held above her lacerated womb,
then exhale when we hear your raucous bawl.
I count the possibilities of doom
upon your toes, my abacus; barbed lines
on monitors and regulators beep
a sharp cacophony of vital signs.
You dance the limbo of sedated sleep,
machines to graph the flutter of your dreams.
I trace your palm, declare your future grand,
our hopes for you of boyish pranks and schemes
are tightly held in each small grasping hand.
You'll be the death of us, our deepest pride
like any other child, but multiplied.



NICU, for Dominic   Edit #2

We wait as you are lifted from your caul
and held above her lacerated womb,
then exhale when we hear your raucous bawl.
I count the possibilities of doom
upon your toes, my abacus; peaking lines
on monitors and regulators beep
a sharp cacophony of vital signs.
You dance the limbo of sedated sleep,
machines to graph the flutter of your dreams.
I trace your palm, declare your future grand,
our dreams for you of boyish pranks and schemes
are tightly held in each small grasping hand.
You'll be the death of us, our deepest pride
like any other child, but multiplied.


NICU, for Dominic   Edit #1


You breathe, we hold ours ready for a fall;
we watch you lifted from your mother's womb
and exhale as we hear a raucous bawl.
I count the possibilities of doom
upon your toes, my abacus; shifting lines
of monitors and regulators beep
their sharp cacophony of vital signs.
You dance the limbo of sedated sleep,
machines to graph the mysteries of dreams.
I travel lines along plump palms, your future grand
achievements, sweet affairs and daring schemes,
your secret strengths revealed in each small hand.
You'll be the death of us or deepest pride,
like any other child, just multiplied.


NICU, For Dominic.  Original

Your first breath holds ours frozen, after all
the weeks you grew inside your mother's womb,
arriving early with an anxious bawl.
I count the possibilities of doom
and triumph on your toes, my abacus,
as monitors and regulators beep
and flash your vital signs. You mildly fuss
then slip back into artificial sleep;
your dreams a mystery of graphing flares.
I trace fine lines on palms, your future: grand
achievements, escapades, sweet love affairs...
your secret strengths read in each tiny hand.
Although our place does not dictate our worth,
we cannot earn the luck or curse of birth.