For Aya
after Marilyn Hacker
Written by Zeina Hashem Beck
The neonatal doctor describes you; Champion, no doubt, my daughter.
Two days old, hands tied-tried to pull your breathing tube out, my daughter.
What rush you were in to leave the womb! No one told me the real odds were
not with us. You in the incubator, & I without my daughter.
Your grandmother canceled the chocolates. No, postponed was her word, for she
believed in angels, & I sang you ABBA like a devout, my daughter.
When the gyno cut, I was full of god & nausea. Quickly they pulled
you out of me & the room. Said my uterus was drought, my daughter.
The first few hours your alveoli expanded, did not collapse.
I fell asleep, woke up breathless, knew what that was about, my daughter.
Two doses of surfactant & a central IV. O but your eyes:
how you breathed with them, my tiny, my defiant, my stout, my daughter.
What could I, slashed & IV-ed, shaky under the blankets, breasts useless,
do but wait, then leave, then water my visits with song. Sprout, my daughter.
The scent of hand sanitizer. The drive to the hospital. Today
they removed your ventilator. Surprise! the nurse shouts. My daughter,
we named you Aya, a line from the Qur’an, the Bible. Your beauty’s
light, an aya, goes the song. I believe; I hear your صوت, my daughter.
Aya is a former NICU baby, who is now 16 years old :)