whispers.
âItâs up to you now, my girl. Push when I tell you, pant when I donât.â
He twists the babyâs head gently, prising it with his fingers from my grip. I writhe, eyes so wide they canât see. Thus Chaos produced Chronos, which is never-ageing Time.
I feel the huge, hard egg between my legs, the burning, the impossibility of the task, the ludicrousness of it. The relief of blood lubricating me. I sit up, lean forward with both hands to catch my baby.
âNot yet,â the doctor cautions. âNot yet.â
The shoulders are out and the rest of the body springs forth in a rush. I fall back onto the bed and the doctor pushes the baby up toward my belly, just one little push on its bottom, the cord dangling like a purple tail behind him. Heâs screaming and his face is scarlet.
In the split second before, the doctor held him and checked his air passages for mucus, the child was still. A second that lasted forever as we looked to the doctor, looked at the midwives, at each other. Then the magnificent wail. The doctor holding him high for a suspended moment and the babyâs face raised up, mouth open, containing all. Numinous, as though in the presence of divinity.
In turn Chronos gave birth to an egg from which sprang a hermaphroditic god with golden wings, the head of a bull and springing from his head a snake. This god was called Phanes, the shining one.
My baby is slippery and shiny with blood and vernix. His white hair is plastered to his skull. I hold him in the crook of my arm, where heâs heavy, limbs flailing. He begins to suck as if this is all he was born to do. My breasts are golden with colostrum, nipples big as plums. Zoi cuts the umbilical cord and a spasm passes over my babyâs face as our bond is severed. I look at him and donât care who his father is. Heâs mine.
There is psychic wholeness in an egg, for it contains the whole world. But the egg is split into two, into Earth and Sky. Then thereâs Zoiâs face close to mine and my baby has his eyes open as he looks away, beyond us, into nothing.
20
THE HOSPITAL ROOM is bare, walls painted yellow to catch as much of the little sunshine that there is. It struggles wanly through gaps in concrete buildings, with crazy television antennae as far as the eye can see, on every apartment, every house, every hotel. Even as far as the Plaka quarter and the Parthenon, mercifully free of cables so high, yet shrouded in nefos , the mist of modern Athens. Those celebrated columns coated with multiple layers of dust. CARYATIDS hold up the pediment of the south wing, mute, long suffering, their wide eyes blinded by pollution. Dust so thick on the wall opposite my window it furs like the skin of an unknown animal. Waving in the breeze blowing high above buildings, down elevator shafts, looping through the fissures between balconies.
I pull myself into a sitting position, prop myself on two pillows. This way I can even catch the flame of the city far away, faintly erotic in winks of light. I notice thereâs no phone on my bedside table. I want to call my mother today, even if she wonât understand a word. Say to her, heâs beautiful. He wasnât a mistake. Iâm not aware of anything much except his breathing in the plastic crib by my bed, mauve creases covered by a thin blanket, cloth-nappied bottom in the air. Other concerns exist only on the periphery of my thoughts. When the pain of the stitches disturbs me, it tears through the veil momentarily. But I canât move from this position once Iâve found it, balanced on the small of my back, squashed on the thin mattress.
My bodyâs soft and moist and relaxed but it feels no desire. So strange, this dead feeling, for the first time in so long. All that passion and striving, eradicated. All that prodding and poking after the birth. The lilypad placenta, glowing unnaturally under fluorescent lights. I wanted to take it with
âItâs up to you now, my girl. Push when I tell you, pant when I donât.â
He twists the babyâs head gently, prising it with his fingers from my grip. I writhe, eyes so wide they canât see. Thus Chaos produced Chronos, which is never-ageing Time.
I feel the huge, hard egg between my legs, the burning, the impossibility of the task, the ludicrousness of it. The relief of blood lubricating me. I sit up, lean forward with both hands to catch my baby.
âNot yet,â the doctor cautions. âNot yet.â
The shoulders are out and the rest of the body springs forth in a rush. I fall back onto the bed and the doctor pushes the baby up toward my belly, just one little push on its bottom, the cord dangling like a purple tail behind him. Heâs screaming and his face is scarlet.
In the split second before, the doctor held him and checked his air passages for mucus, the child was still. A second that lasted forever as we looked to the doctor, looked at the midwives, at each other. Then the magnificent wail. The doctor holding him high for a suspended moment and the babyâs face raised up, mouth open, containing all. Numinous, as though in the presence of divinity.
In turn Chronos gave birth to an egg from which sprang a hermaphroditic god with golden wings, the head of a bull and springing from his head a snake. This god was called Phanes, the shining one.
My baby is slippery and shiny with blood and vernix. His white hair is plastered to his skull. I hold him in the crook of my arm, where heâs heavy, limbs flailing. He begins to suck as if this is all he was born to do. My breasts are golden with colostrum, nipples big as plums. Zoi cuts the umbilical cord and a spasm passes over my babyâs face as our bond is severed. I look at him and donât care who his father is. Heâs mine.
There is psychic wholeness in an egg, for it contains the whole world. But the egg is split into two, into Earth and Sky. Then thereâs Zoiâs face close to mine and my baby has his eyes open as he looks away, beyond us, into nothing.
20
THE HOSPITAL ROOM is bare, walls painted yellow to catch as much of the little sunshine that there is. It struggles wanly through gaps in concrete buildings, with crazy television antennae as far as the eye can see, on every apartment, every house, every hotel. Even as far as the Plaka quarter and the Parthenon, mercifully free of cables so high, yet shrouded in nefos , the mist of modern Athens. Those celebrated columns coated with multiple layers of dust. CARYATIDS hold up the pediment of the south wing, mute, long suffering, their wide eyes blinded by pollution. Dust so thick on the wall opposite my window it furs like the skin of an unknown animal. Waving in the breeze blowing high above buildings, down elevator shafts, looping through the fissures between balconies.
I pull myself into a sitting position, prop myself on two pillows. This way I can even catch the flame of the city far away, faintly erotic in winks of light. I notice thereâs no phone on my bedside table. I want to call my mother today, even if she wonât understand a word. Say to her, heâs beautiful. He wasnât a mistake. Iâm not aware of anything much except his breathing in the plastic crib by my bed, mauve creases covered by a thin blanket, cloth-nappied bottom in the air. Other concerns exist only on the periphery of my thoughts. When the pain of the stitches disturbs me, it tears through the veil momentarily. But I canât move from this position once Iâve found it, balanced on the small of my back, squashed on the thin mattress.
My bodyâs soft and moist and relaxed but it feels no desire. So strange, this dead feeling, for the first time in so long. All that passion and striving, eradicated. All that prodding and poking after the birth. The lilypad placenta, glowing unnaturally under fluorescent lights. I wanted to take it with
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