The Granny Woman trudges up the muddy road
that leads to the head of the holler
where her patient, impatient, awaits her ministration.

An anxious father greets her at the door.
She makes her way to the back room
where sisters and female cousins
are whispering courage to the woman
doubled over on the lumpy, white-metal bed.

She washes her hands in a basin
and opens up her bag,
rummaging for just the right instrument.
A knife slipped under the mattress
will draw away the pain,
the stabbing fiery declamation
that new life is on its way.
The sharpness of the blade
matches the sharpness of the labor—
and, God willing, intimidates it into silence.

Now the Granny Woman begins quietly
to sing,
to chant,
to cast her spell.

Who knows how long it will take?
It doesn’t matter:
Granny is here.
Granny is here.

She and everyone have entered the sacred moment.
They will stay there as long as it takes.