Three (Holy Trinity)

Third baby

rainbowed arrival,

after-weather light.

You press your hand to the curve of your mother’s bones,

shoulders folded.

Your cord—silver scarf, twice-wrapped.

Dark crown, turtle head, you’re in no rush.

But the tub, mirror water, swirls of labor

And the clock above on the wall, minute hands at our wrists begin to burn.

My palms find you there,

I close my eyes and see:

here is your shoulder,

little one come, dance, turn, turn, turn…

And you do.

Around, around

double nuchal cord unspools,

midwives’ fingers unbraiding

gentle undoing.

Your mother’s voice reaches,

and one great breath you echo back,

I’m here.

Weight of you—nearly eight pounds, iridescent.

Three.

Three children now, but for a moment longer

it is only you, your mother, your father—Holy trinity.

We see your cord grows from the edge of your placenta—roots and limbs stretching far,

your fingertips formed with each trace.

You settle at your mother’s breast,

gold milk at your mouth,

tomorrow’s sunlight made liquid.

Tonight’s moon Sea of Showers.

Finally, once again, you in my arms,

First to hold your turning shoulder,

right here, right here,

where I will always remember you:

spinning into yourself, circling toward light.

Divine dance.