Cesarean Poem by Leah Browning

After all the months of anticipation and dread,
instead of handing out questions, the teacher
claps her hands and lets us go home, our
sharpened number two pencils hanging uselessly
at our sides, the exam permanently postponed.

All around us, other couples busy themselves
with work, their backs bent over their desks,
while we sneak away with our A and a letter
of congratulations. I’ve taken the test before,
I explain to everyone I know. I know what

labor is like. I’ve answered every question, more
than once. Honestly, I remember every excruciating
second. They don’t seem to mind. They smile
and talk of other things, while I comfort myself
with thoughts of irreparable scars, of creeping ten painful

steps to the bathroom (hunched over for fear of jerking
out staples and spilling blood and cut muscle onto
the floor): I remember the tube of the catheter, and the
moment in the operating room when the doctor finally
untangled the baby, and my arms were too weak to lift.