This is the father, by the way, my husband Orlando.
[LAUGHTER]
[APPLAUSE]
And that was actually true.
The first thing she did when she arrived was,
they put her on my chest, and she scrunched her brow,
and she looked up to her dad.
So it was so beautiful.
And the other thing I always have to say
is, she was really quiet when she was born,
and it was like a quiet lake.
You know, like, in the movies you always
see the babies are like, waah, but I
thought she would be like that and she was quiet.
So it was a nice experience.
OK, so I'm going to read just one more piece.
And the second piece is, actually, a poem
I wrote for Mark Turcotte.
He's an Ojibwe poet, I don't know
if you're familiar with him.
But I wrote it because, after all these motherhood poems,
I wanted to consider, just for a moment, fatherhood.
And I went to one of his readings, and he wrote--
excuse me, he read a piece called "A Blur of Echoes."
And in that piece, he talks about a child
that he lost in birth, and his own response to that,
and it was very moving.
So this is a response to his work,
and my own attempt at considering the connection
between father and baby.
It's titled "Burial Flight."
Stillborn rocked on Father's chest.
A house-- wood slats, unborn the un-lips, like blue cracks.
Cord, bed, flesh, room wet--
good God.
The father, the pull--
his head a window.
Water streaks how birds, he thinks, circle him in approach.
Retreat, a thousand count, blood wings yank.
An un-lung song, loadstone call.
Daddy.
Dad.
Father.
Pa.
Snow face, sunken roof.
The red white lights in corners, the walls blink, spin.
Father to mother, one to un-other.
Paper piles, wind house now, a drip, leak, God.
Each drop a head, like the unforeseen, like a boy's hand.
The could-bes, the, look Daddy look.
His crayon tips could draw, press,
could each sharp V, two down stroke wings.
Could child, a boy.
Could scrap, paper.
Could black, and black could.
Those birds again-- this man, stomach, his gut.
Like you, Mama feels every kick, jab--
a buckshot blow.
There, the middle, center, and parts scatter.
Mad flying or sometimes smaller, a bird feet curled bent branch.
Twig, lift, quick flight, the rush.
One to the greater--
a speck flock how the whole body rises, dives, shifts,
in cradle sky.
This man-- his chest sways and rocks.
It's in him.
It's what does not happen.
[APPLAUSE]