Birth & Death
Just unjust lifecycles
Eleven Pounds - H. R. Sinclair
I was born eleven pounds
that’s four point nine kg
my placenta the same weight
as my brother
when he was birthed
into my world.
I was born eleven pounds
(and a half)
soft on the eyes
some say
(some say otherwise)
a cute face
or a podgy face
either way,Titanic in size.
I was born eleven pounds
not fat but big
tall body with a big head
looking lackadaisical
with a matching smile.
I was a big baby
I’m still a baby
just a bit bigger still.
I was born eleven pounds
into water, eyes shut
already dreaming
-or just out cold-
maybe meditating:
the last time I’d be
ENTIRELY
in the moment.
I was born eleven pounds
helped change laws
and remove waivers.
The Dangerous
now proven doable
proven necessary
for the mother's birthing
eleven-pound-babies submerging.
I was born eleven pounds
I was water-born
I was born asleep
I was born
into complication
underwater
overweight
yet breathing nonetheless
as the rest is
history.
© H. R. Sinclair 2025
I was born eleven and a half pounds during my water birth. I was born asleep, somehow. I was born without doing any harm to my mum, somehow.
Before I entered the world in the UK, mothers having a waterbirth had to sign a waiver absolving the hospital of any liability. They deemed the risk too high and thus didn’t want to be responsible for the outcome.
My mum safely water-birthing an eleven-pound, healthy baby, helped change that law. Her midwife used my mother and me as case evidence that it was possible.
Now, new mothers are safer for it.
Sorry mum, but hopefully it was worth it.
And the Word is Death - Edward Swafford
It is the word, it is the rule, it IS the precept
morality mouths proofread
we’re never wrong, even as we evangelize
in the name of the Father beget this blessing
blind circles of life sickles
natural selection cycles, coming blackness
oh yes, it’s our pleasure
Resident Zero hasn’t eaten in three days, but she’s 91. That’s a pretty good effort to live for so long! We won’t call her doctor, is she in bed? Leave her there, she’ll probably die during the night; if she starts moaning or making noise then administer two paracetamols.
Feel the choleric chill running backward
back-and-forth, forth-nor-back, of blackness
we’ll watch you wither and wane with zest
once you see writing
on wastrel walls: THE. END.
are they closing in yet? Cardinal inevitability
hasten the blitzkrieg
Resident Zero doesn’t look well, she’s febrile and her breathing is hoarse. She might need stronger pain relief than standard paracetamol, we’re already using morphine for another resident, and we DO NOT want to come under scrutiny from the health department if they think there are too many unnecessary deaths. Have we got any cold compress towelettes in the nurses' station to bring down her fever?
The edge, we’ve sharpened every cut corner
sooner singularity for your sorry sake
of novation neglect
readying the reaper, paralleled best practice
may you rest in charity confirmation
peace has a price, charism is a cheaper hope
we never warned you
Resident Zero isn’t moving? I believe she’s passed, can you phone head office and let them know we have a spare bed? Our waiting list is exhaustive. OH, call her family afterward and send them your condolences. We did all we could! What a night, eh?
© Edward Swafford 2025 - originally published in The Howling Owl, and revamped for Black Coffee Poetry
Working in the aged care sector has brought me to the emotional brink more times than I can count. Neglect, abuse, and greed from money-centric nursing home management (and complicit staff) are commonplace.
I’m burnt out, I don’t know if there’s a future for empath nurses in the sector.
My friend and I did a thing. Hope you liked it.
Edward, you marvellous man, please don’t sacrifice yourself to the point of ash. You’re pretty cool, so I’d like you around.
Embodied and durational. My kind of poem.