Semi-Detached Five a.m. screams: push, breathe, owww, the contractions come quick now as the blue pushes through the black of night, and the low drone of the husband's voice: pure compassion, flows through placenta thin walls. We lay awake unpregnant, waiting. Our heads lean against the wall that separates us from them, The dog sits at attention as our feet tangle under the parchment of a sheet. Our lives hang on the long chord of minutes in between. We focus on birth, passage. Silence, no pushes. The surface tension holds us in stasis, I wonder how our world contracted to this. Detachment starts in the birth canal. descent, then the taught cord plucked and the screaming shock of first air. We breathe finally, familiar as the crying begins. I descend the stairs past the living room: the glass table, posh couch, the sterile mantle with pictures of other people's children. I go through the crisp routine of morning: paper, coffee, dog's breakfast. On the counter is a paper bag of apples. I grasp it and hug it to my chest, heave and sigh. Letting go of what was there what was there and I didn't know. Upstairs it's quiet now, but for the birds outside the window: the young outstretches and screeching for their morning feed.