by Alma Christl Call This baby could be a Christmas sausage, swaddled in red, by the round weight, the two grandmothers hungry for me to pee the thick plastic wrapper, slice and serve on ritz with cheese. A cocktail parry in this birthing room. Friends and family mingling, dressed nicely, only the hostess is naked and bleeding. Everyone loves the hors d'oevre. They suck on its fingers, say, "I could eat you up!" And "Please pass the baby." This baby, consumed so quickly, seven minutes old. What to serve as the main course? Perhaps placenta or me. There's plenty.