Before my father was my father
or ever welcomed any
of the 800 or so babies
he helped swim into
this slippery world,

my mother’s hands
would speak
the universal language
of women
to a Sikh mother
whose labor pushed its way
into the dusty, hot atmosphere
of an Indian train
leaving the station
with women in one compartment,
men in another.

Methodist missionaries
in the 1950s
were taught birthing
and a little Hindi
“dhanyavad”, “shukria”, “achaa”
which would be just enough
for this moment
as the passengers cleared a place
to lay mother and child down
as they began to dance
apart.

There was no hot water
some saris served as towels.

Soon, a baby’s first wail
joined the long whistle
of an engine
rolling across the plains
piercing through the heat
cutting through the chaos
of crowds.

One more life cried out.

And my mother, who was not yet mine
looked around for something sharp
to cut the cord.