Chel Campbell

CHIMERA (WITH MIRROR)

Bodies crest the bleeding amniotic river
flowing from a naked body
rendered unfamiliar,

tongue sucks ice chips before stomach vomits.
They say I push in the wrong places,
say this mirror will visualize the labor,

and still this child feels everywhere and nowhere.
Please take the mirror away
from this monstrous body

opened, carve the baby out. I am sweat-spent
on screaming for existence—all I want is
water, take me to water—

but they won’t. Instead, the doctor guides my
fingers to touch fine, mucus-mucked hair
on the crowning child’s head,

and for a moment I know exactly where we are
before my legs collapse onto my bloodied bed,
and he submerges back inside.