I remember the last time they made me listen to the haunting rhythm of life
I heard the purposeful staccato syncopation of your grandfather’s swan song
vhoop vhoop vhoop
Can you hear it, the sonographer asks now
but I was instead coiled in a stupor, like sitting at The Hatter’s table in several layers of surreal
the many times before this when I had created imaginary moments like it
even knowing what I would say, how I would replay the elation.
I looked on, dazed, like he’d asked me a riddle for which there was no answer
I peered at the sound waves that were you, on a screen that denied me
the wholeness of your being
Your grandfather used to say, when they tell you that you can’t it’s because you can,
so I start smiling, wryly, because I can hear him everywhere these days
Involuntarily my hand reaches out at the image
Can you hear it sir? The man from wonderland repeats,
That, he says, as he points at my coup de foudre, is baby A
my head, like a horse in a carousel, turns to him for revelation
watching as his hand moves the probe across your mother’s belly
and I hear it one more time,
vhoop vhoop vhoop
the illusionist flips his wand , and there, below, makes you appear on the other side. Almost laughing
at me he says,
and that’s baby B.
Vhoop. Vhoop. Vhoop.
NOORMOHAMED 