LAUREN WINCHESTER


                                     



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.

 

 

                                                                                                      

 

      

 

                                   

 

 


TYPO 28