I was born in the early evening
behind an old door at the end

                                                of autumn.

Imagine a woman with child.
A mouthful of hair.
A fist forming.
A stone bathtub & a rough sink.
Thick paste of salt 

                                    & cold 

applied directly to 

                        the stain.

Blue eyes. 
A collective 
                        gasp.

The hardwood ladder 
            leaning 

                                                against 

the shadow of dead cells
nightgowned 
                        in moon. 

                          
                         *

I was raised 

            in the surrounding grass-covered ruins
between 

                        rhubarb & riverine. 

When I was a child

there were no words for this        cool

simplicity, 

            collapsing 

                                  over time.

When the water was low

think:
                            field created by lightning


            kaleidoscope of back 
            & forth.

Imagine:

                                  its voice
                                  more like a chorus. 

Its sudden squall.

Digging

the fossils
that drowned 

trying to
          reach us.