In “Birth Night,” a man watches a woman lying in firelight and imagines the glow as a red womb around her. She seems folded into warmth, letting go of ugly, brutal years and old grief. He feels connected to her like a vein carrying blood from the night into her source, washing her into a new phase of life. He casts himself as Adam, giving birth to Eve from his own body, as in Genesis—but here the birth is emotional and intimate, not literal. The mood is hushed, tender, almost sacred. He sees her face as soft as a flower bud on a mountain croft, and calls the night his Noël—his Christmas—because he feels a woman has been born from the man in him.
Birth Night — Summary
This fireglow is a red womb In the night, where you're folded up On your doom.
And the ugly, brutal years Are dissolving out of you, And the stagnant tears.
I the great vein that leads From the night to the source of you, Which the sweet blood feeds.
New phase in the germ of you; New sunny streams of blood Washing you through.
You are born again of me. I, Adam, from the veins of me The Eve that is to be.
What has been long ago Grows dimmer, we both forget, We no longer know.
You are lovely, your face is soft Like a flower in bud On a mountain croft.
This is Noël for me. To-night is a woman born Of the man in me.