The Birth

Ron Koppelberger

The Birth

She shone in candent glories of rouge blush and glimmering amber eyed intensity. Her arms lay clenched against the bleach white arrangement of sheets in a gasp of course, the course of pregnant design, the journey of betrothals in ferocious disposition defined, a rhythm in breaths of panting, whispering reoccurrence.
She held the bond and the lashings of cerulean dreams and scarlet angst in the complaining belly of servile devotion to the inheritance. The humble wonder of design and immortal discovery gave birth to the secret.
The nurses and the birth mother were visible, heads rising and muted in silent acquiescence as they worked between her splayed legs. She groaned and the birth mother acknowledged with a careful tug, the baby fought free and she gasped again in consuming relief. The birth mother handed the baby to the nurse and left the room. Squalls and tears, the fresh cool air and luminescence greeted the child in degrees of sensation. She held her arms out and fashioned a cradle for her new wonder, the sweet delicacy of newborn decree. The nurse handed the baby boy to her in the silken cloth of a moonlight sash. The child cooed and the birthmark near the back of his neck glowed min crimson exclamation. She laughed and cried in joy when the tiny bundle suckled at her finger. She smiled, two tiny fangs probed at her finger tip in playful union with an instinct that was primal and beyond explanation.
In the penance of a contrite avatar the gnarled visitor secreted himself near the entrance to the unbidden passion of mother and child, the union of hold and bond; he waited near the large double doors. The doors proclaimed restricted admittance, and in reading those signs he recognized the irony in his mission. The child cooed and the evening grew shaded and deep with the notion of wombs and new beginnings.