NEAR-DISASTERS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD
When I was born
there was snow
in the swamplands.
The novelty called
to me, so I ejected
from the womb
too early.
I looked like a wad
of chewed gum.
For months I stayed
shriveled, sticky pink,
my visitors refusing
to hold me.
The years stretched
my form into the shape
of a girl, small
but solid-seeming.
Then my skin
began to mottle with bruises
from the faintest bump,
my capillaries seeping
blue-purple.
There was evidence
of every touch,
from the graze
of a table edge
to a hug.
With a frame
so tenuous,
all physical affection
was limited.
My blood anomaly
went away eventually,
but after years
of near-disasters,
I still doubt
my structural integrity.
Any hatching bruise,
any sight of raw skin
has me reeling back
to the sound
that once lured me out
into the white-flecked world.
|