Every secret has a midwife

every secret has a midwife

some third party

of self without much dialogue

but with abundant seamless intimacy

to observe and respond

accounting for all the sorted details

with patience and composure

as delicate facile hands

displaying trust

in handling a secret’s domain

in a method

that is self-concealed and private

apparently to something

so out of person, out of place

except in this vault room

of paradoxical wonder

where one’s life of moral platform

bares out a secret jewel in disguise

a rough diamond

hidden in a clay mind

a talon in a feather duster’s world

a submerged nuclear sub

in a kiddy pool

a twister board laid over a minefield

a serial killer passing as an evangelist

it might be anything

resoundingly dynamic obscured

in placid personality light

but every secret has a midwife

for some manner of carriage

some means of momentum

yet withholding

there is a voice unheard

a say unshared

an act boundaried

by personal overwhelm

something perceived as worse

than that bland looking monkey

with the red ass

something . . .

with a operational appendage of blame

some high ledge of guilt to fall from

some unbecoming snare

in the sheer fabric of being

some thorn deposit

without rose account

but every secret has a midwife

as a pro or con

working a scheme of rational decals

as camouflage to carry on

a residency of complex positions

held and withheld

a “safe” place quiet

within the hustle of self

a medium of comprehension

beyond the easy call

a mix of fear and courage

to amend an apprehension

living the chemical life

of growing a pearl

but without the eventual string

of cultural attention

hence say it

so loud that it can’t be heard

so say it in a hush-hush

yet accepting way

“every secret has a midwife”

(is not a secret . . . any more)