the common breathing
Fate filled out her bones. The rain nerves on bare head bones.
Her hands exsanguine
as the last-born son
strung up in the birthing room
where the nurses wait,
and this one,
slunk in ratwet and born today:
he off of her, lights
up, some stench of iron clings
to her fingernails,
and it is natural to store toes,
pneumonia and tired eyes in vats;
it is modern to come
back in cheeks rouged with clots.
like the boy they brought in.
he was a road map,
blood houses and congested roads
conceived in a decade old dream
and complete as a man on scaffolding
tipping his hat to gravity.