Bethlehem’s only one city, you know.
The other day in Matamoros,
a Mom, originally from Guatamela,
gave birth on the banks of the river.
This really happened, you can read about it.
Asylum seekers lay her down in the Rio Grande mud,
and whispered soothing words to her.
Tranquila. Madre. Esta bien.
And there in the refugee camp,
with the ambulance still on the way,
it was accomplished. Every birth,
I think, and especially some,
ought to be recorded, noted somehow, the heroic timbre
of the thing sung in verse.
Even bad verse. Speak to me, son of man,
of the next little one coming in the night,
and don’t leave out any figure on the sidelines,
who is bringing the gift of themselves,
who is embellishing necessity with kindness.