Only Daughter

I knew she was gonna be a girl.
I'd had four boys before her.
I knew the feet in my ribs,
the fists on my kidneys
of little boys trapped
inside of me.

Ed was having a party
when my water broke ~
11:00 p.m., December 31st, 1949.
I sent one of the boys to get him 
so we could go to the hospital.
Jimmy came back and told me daddy said
I didn't need him to *have* the baby.

I had the last one alone and didn't mind.
And she was a New Year's baby, a girl. 
I wanted her to be the first child born
in the '50s, but the cab didn't show
until 11:45 and her head 
had already started tearing me.
  
I tried to hold her back,
but she was born on the cold 
plastic seat of a speeding cab, 

the last child of the '40s.




copyright 1994 kathy jo kramer