If I slid, until my head was under the soothe
of bathwater – lay very still, I believed I could hear
the same burbled plumbing echo as you:
distant music percolating through from another,
waiting world.

My little amphibian, I imagined you
like a pearl to begin.  For a while, a pulsing jelly-fish –
bones building and building within you
like coral – your lungs’ soft sponges.

Then the ultrasound submarine search
found you whole –
your tiny pulsing heart
screened under a KY slide.

I waved to you, windowed in
the secret aquarium of my belly
and thought I saw you
press your face and webby palms against its sides
and smile a bubbly smile at me,

my merman, weaving between umbilical sea fronds.
I was scared for you – delivered onto
this blue-green planet through broken waters –
so afraid of the air to your new lungs.


© Caroline Fox Betts 2010

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