Lights, camera, action.

Lights, drapes, instruments.

Clad in blue gowns and white

latex gloves, you begin the

familiar dance. Here is the

low static drone of the suction,

there is the warmth of the

patient’s body where you are

pressed together, waist to waist.

See the square of flesh, rosy

and pink, peeking through the

expanse of drapes. Incision:

Pfannenstiel, transverse lower

abdominal. The bright flash of

blood, brief as a mirage, whisked

away with a pneumatic hiss.

The rip of skin, fat, fascia –

a guttural sound. Fingers inside,

feeling out the layers of muscle

through dense thickets of scar.

Uterine, says the attending, hands

enfolding that hard, gravid mass.

The choreography quickens.

Push and twist, answering gush of

amniotic fluid: now here comes

a swell of blood, so much blood,

blossoming across the floor.

Turn head, turn shoulders –

the baby is out, its face veiled

in white foam. Towel in hand,

suction to mouth. Listen – yes! –

for that crescendo of high-pitched

crying, echoing through the OR.

It’s the oldest sound in the world.

Smile now. Say congratulations

Mama, you did it. It’s a boy.