and even still I came out crying. Without knowing
the reasons why I should, I cried for everything I had
lost in the pocket of time where all I had to do
was be in blood. Held by a cord. Cradled. Nothing, not then, was taken
for granted. They all preached all blessed all prayed for me
and my invisible halo. I had not earned their sainthood I carried
the burden of the label with me: it had no choice
but to consume my veins/temples/lungs. Trembling with cold air
with thoughts of first breaths shaking my throat I inhale
ambiguity; coast through the exhale of speculation. In birth
I found my bleeding mother as her blood mixed with my own. Death
of comfort coated my naked body (air held me for the first time) as I leaned into skin
I screamed: they all rejoiced. For a lack of everything except love,
I felt so unprepared when I stepped outside.