Almost
1 Minute Read Time
He was born too soon and almost too late
—my boy trapped in my womb—
blood singing and hot for light
bought too dearly, the air beating its fist
in his chest against a sealed door.
O blue of the blood unsuffused,
blue of his blue Vishnu face
before his first breath. The cord
broke too soon with him still inside, vise
of the future closing its jaws. The doctor’s eyes
flitted sideways when I kissed the hands
that drew my child into—and almost out
of—the world. Your son came too soon, code
for not my fault. He was—almost—right.
Read more from Issue 19.1.
