Breech Birth, 1959

She wakes to my father
eating her eggs, a napkin
tucked in the collar
of his white work shirt,
a man hunched,
eating as though
he has not eaten in weeks.

Fork in one hand,
the other stuffed with bread,
he sops the slippery yolk.
A breech birth,
my mother opened wider
than ever before,
the metal forceps
twisting to spill
the baby forth.

Her newborn is down the hall
and beyond her reach.
She cannot lift her head
or even speak
as she watches him
dab his chin
and wipe each cheek.