Baptism by Cordelia M. Haneman

I am gardening in south Louisiana heat,
my Mother’s Day gift to myself,
until, red in the face and soaked
with sweat, thirsty, I turn on the spigot,
watch the rush of water
gush over stones, thrust my mouth
into it, drink it in, water for me
as well as for the seeds–
seedlings, sprouts, all birthing
under my hand.
                        My hand
moves over my belly where I carry
the little round boy baby, who
pummels and kicks his demand
to be known, holding on until the last
eyelash, fingernail and hair follicle
is fully formed.
                        How I cherish
soil, earth, air, the sweat, too, growth
popping out of the ground, turning
about in my body, wanting to be born,
everything insisting on birth.
                        I brandish
the hose; luscious water tumbles
over my head, soaking my clothes
and the ground around my feet,
pouring into my mouth, slaking
thirst all the way to my toes,
from the outside in.