the gynaecology of flight

after the doctor heard his brother

he used shells to contact

babies in far-off lands

and sang the rose of scotland

 

though some arrived with beakers

of rough wine and others seemed lost or wild

they never felt so welcome

 

in his theatre he managed

small stages of bones and used

the ventouse and high forceps

for babies off the wagon

 

through the episiotomy of days

he knew their weight their blood their pallor

their boots outside the uterine door

 

sometimes from the fertility dreams

of tom cats he arranged

the fine tunes of conception

 

these babies he often found

in the ribs and mane of the forest

the lungs of their parachutes

purple gestational life

 

with his sail-maker’s needle

he encouraged multiple babies

who for nine months had shared

the same hotel room to keep talking

 

these days he lives with those babies

on whom he had first felt

the origin of wings

they teach him to fly