By John Dorroh

My friend is giving birth in the front seat of my Civic,

zipping down Highway 45 South to the Gulf of Mexico,

to a secret place in Mississippi that gave me new life

three years ago when I thought I was going to die.

 

Her pains are registered in compressed throbettes,

the smile never leaving her face. “Great name for a church,”

she says. “Flat Rock Living Water of the Divine and Holy Spirit.”

It makes me happy that soon she will give part of her old soul

and absorb a new one just like what happens in a liver transplant.

It will grow up beside her like a child that she can walk along

the dunes on the beach, down to the three palms

with the two beach chairs,

that invite people to sit,

a perfect place for breathing in new air.

 

“You need to get your feet wet,” I said, “cover them with

sand, then douse them with sea water on top of your toes,

reach down onto your ankles and pull the wet up your thighs.

Don’t worry who will raise this child. He will practically

raise himself.

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