Birth from Words
I dreamed I was born
a second time,
not of flesh or blood,
but of letters.
The midwives read me the alphabet
like a psalm,
and each vowel
pierced my chest
with a thorn.
I wept ink for tears,
and my mother whispered:
“This is not a child,
this is a poem.
It will live only
as long as its wounds
are spoken aloud.”
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