The Moon the Light and the Bamboo Floor

Comfortable,

for the most part,

upside down in the salt water

of a tiny brown woman,

too concerned with the troubles

I sensed outside.

Not wishing to be born

In the churning times,

mud hoofs of the Horsemen,

so loud I covered my ears,

with yet unborn fists.

I was wanted,

much more than I wanted to

arrive on Earth.

I felt mature, ripe,

somehow centered,

curled up like a cinnamon cat,

poised to unfurl.

Too proud to howl,

refusing to cry.

I know with certainty:

I was present at my mother Cresencia’s birth!

It was 1932, I held my Lola in spirit-arms.

She bled. I helped her make it,

this was her 9th baby,

and would not be her last.

In 1888 when Ninang Maria Flora

gave birth to my Lola, Vicenta,

I was there as well.

Vicenta was breech.

I held the room in check,

so, no one would panic.

No one would pull my Lola

out and harm her.

I was a comfort,

but more,

I was the moonlight on the bamboo floor slats.

I was the skill.

I was the root.