Daughter in Labor 5/19/2020

I am putting away the dishes as I sneak glances over at her working on the floor of the living room. 
The dishes I handle include pieces of her pottery, 
a cream colored spoon rest, 
small shallow bowls. 
Saucers for collecting the chopped aromatics before they go in the pan. 
Her ceramics are smooth with shiny fired glaze on top,
rough and unglazed underneath. 
Warm earth-tone colors, 
precious utility. 

Mia's working in black and white right now, 
clipping out images from my old postcards of older photographs: 
a Bruce Weber couple on a motorboat, 
Billie Holiday caught by a flashbulb while looking in a mirror, 
Edith Piaf mid-laugh. 
She is crafting a collage that will eventually make its way to the mailbox 
and then to her art teacher. 
A quick fun assignment, 
due in twenty-five minutes.

When she was working her way out of my body, 
I shook her father awake, 
then handed him a paper that read 
"Don't ask questions." 

It was a page of advice to birth helpers so as not to distract the laboring woman. 
No surprise, 
he let loose an urgent string of queries. 

Now I am doing my best to keep silent, 
let her work, 
don't distract, 
although I want to get inside her brain right now, 
find the secret to her process, 

"How does your doubt go away? 
 How can you work so fast, 
so free?"