The Birthing

Before the start of each day

I lie in a womb,

my shower,

and soak.

The water gallops on my head,

slips through my toes,

and collects in my navel.

The air is thick.

The pouring is loud.

Everything is warm and wet.

Each day is pregnant with me

but I am morning-hesitant

groggy

moody

like a baby threatening to scream

if wretched from comfort.

It takes about an hour

to peel myself out of my comfortable bath

and when the curtain opens

and the cool air rips at my skin

I shiver and stretch

like a babe disgruntled.

The ritual is real

in felt time,

and without it,

I'd fight to the end to stay in bed

smelling of night sweat 

and morning breath

crabby even as I sleep.

So, if you need me in the morning,

just know

that a long, laborious birthing must come first

and

without it

I'll be like a lifeless slug

still slumbering in my muck.