Across the pool, watching you ready
for your final test, I see you, my daughter,
as you were inside me; waiting, unborn,
bobbing in that bath of warm water the way
you're floating in this womb-pool, waiting, inert.

Your eyes are slits; mouth opening,
closing, opening in the lapping amniotic
waters—that saline, this chlorine—
hair slicked back from your temples,
fingers closing, opening, closing,
grasping at the flux you sense
but do not see.

And now your time has come. You have waited
long enough. You release the wall; straining,
kicking to get underway, expected to swim
the entire length of this lane without break
or pause. Without help or touch or bottoming.

The lifeguards crouch on the pool's lip, intent,
encouraging, coaching. They seem like the nurses
who leaned their faces down into mine, encouraging
me while I, naked and sweating, labored for you,
as now, clothed and sweating in the intense humidity,
I labor to keep my dignified mother's silence and not
scream aloud your name as encouragement to us both.

Holding your breath, your feet kick. Arms reach,
hands stretch, grasping for the wall. Then, touch!
And up you shoot! Head, face appearing, water
tumbling from brow to shoulders as if you had only
now broken through the membrane of your sac.

Your eyes open and search for mine across lanes
of choppy water, your face fresh, mouth gulping
in air after so long without. Amid a tumult of
congratulations from nurses, I hear your voice
raise over theirs, calling me: "Mom! I made it!"
And I lean back against the cinderblock wall,
exhausted, relieved that you did, indeed, make it.

Yvette Viets Flaten (Eau Claire) has recently had poetry published by Red Cedar Review and Ariel Anthology. In May 2020 she was interviewed on The Writer’s Almanac by Garrison Keillor as part of his Pandemic Poetry Contest. Her poem, “Riding It Out,” was one of ten winners. Her poem, He runs his fingers won the Wisconsin Writers’ Association’s 2020 Jade Ring Contest.