The best midwives know that birth is best left to nature,
That their role is to hold space for that moment of raw creation –
That moment where Mother and Child are born,
Roared into reality, trial by ring of fire and labor of love

They know pushing on one’s back is easier for the doctor
And works against gravity, that slave catchers specifically sought
African midwives for their wisdom, and the Aztecs honored women who died in childbirth
The same as men who died in battle, and the Spartans did too

They know birth is a sacrament of surrender to one’s own power
Which requires nothing but trust in oneself, and time,
A testament to all that is wild and holy and true –
That men will try to make it ugly, call her a whore,
Call her power abomination, call it disgusting, call it women’s work and
Hide it behind curtains and drapes and lore – make up stories to restrain Her,
Make it easier for him to try to control, to bear –

but still he trembles when She dares to stand and breathe life into the room,
Dares him to look Her in the eye and say She is not powerful,
Dares him to witness the blood and shit and sweat and truth
And pretend he knows anything about power,
Pretend he knows anything about G-d,
Pretend that She is anything but beautiful,
Holy, pretend he has any option but to
Worship Her
With reverence
For all he cannot do