It’s the final moment — the tugging — that’s the worst. A sucking deep within the pelvis, where the body contracts as if to cling to that tiny growth. Everything seems to fight for life, the way a moth with wings bent and tattered by the cat still stretches its proboscis to an offered cap of water. The uterus does not easily let go. My body’s instinct is deeply woven, dense as the bird’s nest the house painter found beneath the eaves. He gasped at the eggs in their bowl of twigs, cupped it in his sunburned, paint-speckled hands, placed it back before dusk, but the birds never returned.