Our Fecundity

What have we done? 
This wrinkled child 
did not ask for entry; 
it answered our call 
for each other. 
Did we not know 
what our suit 
of slow sighs 
would entail? 
Another, who will undergo 
sighing for our sake, 
and for its own sake. 

Who are we to choose 
life for a child 
when we engage 
in this infinitely 
undemocratic act 
of love? 
The only due process, 
our disappearing 
into each other 
in slow turnings, 
moans, 
and whispers 
not even angels 
could overhear.

What is this life force? 
Unfair force, maybe: 
having ached to meet 
infinity 
in our particular 
embrace, 
we made a spring 
wherein our blood 
mingled with something
not of our making 
and leaped into being, 
wrinkled and crying. 

And who shall teach this child
the mystery?