Bethany Tap
Bethany Tap has an MFA from the University of North Carolina-Wilmington. Her work has been published in Emerge Literary Journal, Yellow Arrow Journal, and Third Wednesday, among others. More of her work can be found at bethanytap.com. She lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan with her wife and four kids.
Instagram: @bjtap
Facebook: @bethany.tap
For the Birds
After the delivery came the nurses
a shimmer of busy birds
holding, cleaning, measuring, weighing,
the lights still dimmed in the room,
our baby on my wife’s bare chest, then
mine. None of the photos show
the nurses, but I know they were there.
They changed a diaper, told me
how to hold the baby, gripping that
tiny thigh, babies aren’t as fragile
as you think; they’re slippery, see?
The nurses were there, checking, clucking
a red-bellied blush come to roost until,
with the first pang of winter, they were gone,
a warbling wrench migrated
leaving only us three. Me,
holding a newborn in one hand, diaper
in the other, thinking through the fog,
the tiny pink and kicking legs,
how that was it. There would be
no other training, no scold, charm, or song. Now,
we were on our own.