first draft

My face forced hard against your unsheeted mattress,
hospital blue, stitched-diamonds-intertwining
and bright-lit beneath me.
I am swathed in bedclothes, suspended in-utero,
my fetal weakness held firm by adult weight. .
Antiseptic light, overhead glare,
window torn open and the January frigidity flows
in a soup around us.
Unspent word create themselves, full-grown,
and force their way through the canal of my constricted mouth
almost fully original, nearly disembodied,
full of intention.
The paralysis of sheets
of smooth muscle embracing, oh, darling, I am
bled of volition, fresh and wet and birthed.