Issue #54


Authors

[It Was the First Hour of the First Day]

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.

September First

Memoir with Visible Mending