Through the nursery glass

Carlos Montero peeks at Consuela,

his twelfth, in the arms of a nurse.

Blood from the uterus

bright in black hair,

Consuela is raw, bawling.

The nurse takes Consuela

away to be washed as Carlos

digs deep in his denims,

locks elbows, gleams,

turns to me. I feel odd

in a suit and a tie as I

wait to see Sean, our first.

When the nurse brings Sean to the window,

Carlos Montero whips off his sombrero,

makes a bullfighter’s pass and beams. 

“Senor!“ he booms like a tuba. “Ole!”

Suddenly I’m as happy as he.

—  Donal Mahoney