BABY CULT

by Aaron Banks

I went downtown and found 
the warehouse of sounds and 
went to where they’re kept–– 
the babies. I ended up with 
my hands in a delivery. 
I followed what I heard, so 
when I arrived, I hear. So 
many babies and sounds of 
babies nearing completion. 
So many swollen mothers. 
I reached out my hand to one 
who mouthed the word partner, 
so, I spoke for the both of us. 
She had a birth plan in mind. 
The mother, she gestured like, 
do you know about birthing? 
So, I went for ice and brought 
her enough to cool the room, 
so, she’ll never need ice again. 
And before I could know that 
I must love her, before I thought 
to think of asking for one kiss, 
she seemed to say, no kissing me 
with your hands in this delivery, 
and all this pushing on my end, 
and you aren’t pushing––no 
kissing me while I’m laboring 
to push out the he’s, who’s, ha’s. 
So, no choice but to start acting 
and standing like a father, walking 
and mumbling like one, eating 
steak like fathers eat steak on 
birthdays, and yell like fathers 
yelling about saving the babies. 
How to care for another human? 
So, I quieted the mother, quiet 
her and ask the nurse if this child 
is mine, and how she could tell. 
The nurse said, oh, my mother 
knew just by the shape of my 
nose, the taste of my hands with 
all my baby toes in her mouth. 

Aaron Banks was born and raised in Rochester, NY, where he still lives with his wife and two daughters. He received his MFA from Warren Wilson in 2022 and works at the University of Rochester as an academic advisor for their Ronald E. McNair program. He is seeking publication for his first poetry collection, Cottonwood Man, And is working on a new poetry project and short essays. He can be contacted via email: aabanks118@gmail.com