Pain is a Dagger Burning into my Heart

To bear a child means to carry an egg on a finger or
to nurture a seed in the desert.
My mother is at one corner of the labor room, beating
on her breast, in a faint voice, somewhere at the state’s
specialist hospital, dampened, going fallow like the last
portion of spilled tea. The tulip in her eye is losing it’s glow
along with the alluring scent. For the past nine months, she
had nurtured the unborn child, rummaging the twine that binds
them together. I wish I never wished for a sibling, guilt is sitting
beside me, like silent thunder. Can I say the same for my father?
because this pain is a dagger, burning into my heart and to think,
that when she is about to bear this child, her life and the child’s were
hanging on a weak weft—mother struggling to stay alive and her child
fighting between a murky vale and a pristine world. “to be a man
          would be easier”;
that was what another woman said at one corner of the labor room—
after the light in my mother’s eyes traveled into darkness.