The shiny head is round,
full term, between
the spread leaves of its mother.
I come as the midwife,
a kitchen knife in hand.

There. No lusty cry,
this child is silent.
Two white moths
hover and flutter,
milky attendants
in perpetual motion.

I leave the mother's wound
for the sun to heal.
The stump of the newborn
dries in the crook of my arm.
I am the witch, cradling 
the pale green head,
murmuring, “Little one,
you look good enough to eat.”