My baby may not remember his birth,
his first dip into consciousness,
first thought on existence—
no knowing or wondering…

No, my sweet, small babe
is dead,
killed.
He may not remember a thing.

His brother, however,
his brother, his murderer,
my bold firstborn—
he lives.

Still,
remembrance escapes him.

For who can remember those seconds, those hours
when you can still count all your breaths?
No, my children don’t know any
life before death.

But I
remember both.

The cubs, the kids, the calves,
they all seemed to be learning slowly,
yet here I was, made fresh,
a woman,
with no process of maturation
to label me as such—

no change had developed. I was simply enveloped
by splotches of color.
…But what to name each hue—
what am I?
Who are you?

If my eyes had ever been closed,
they were opened—
I cannot remember initial dark.

He just was,
in front of me,
hovering over me,
with me, nude,
without ground in his game.

But his breath in that instant—
my entire existence—
inhaling the air he breathed into this atmosphere,
before I had moment to fear any fear,

he breathed, “Bone of my bone,”
he said, “Flesh of my flesh,” he said,
“Strong salvation, looker into mine eyes.”

And so I met the world, the sky, the man, my
self, the maker,
and life…

but this woman taken out of him
was later labeled, “Imposed upon him,”
as I stood there naked and heard the words,

“This burden—it’s
her fault,

and she—is
yours.“