I. 

A snowstorm in April

ushered you in with a cord

wrapped around your neck.

A walking contradiction, 

already ready to die

but fighting so hard to live. 

II. 

You entered the world silent.

Gray spread from your toes

upward, pointing to the nurse

who didn’t believe that you

were lost before you arrived

until it was almost too late

to mend your broken heart. 

III.

You were so excited to enter the world

I nearly missed your arrival.

You exited the womb somersaulting. 

They tried to push you back in,

warn you that the world is not

a playground built for your games.

Blood spilled on the doctor’s shoes,

no one was ready for you. 

IV.

You were barely heard, barely felt, 

mistaken for a need to pee

until you came out screaming

louder than any of the others.

The toilet was nearly your first

breath before you were caught.

You were never silent again,

frantic to always be remembered

and never again go unnoticed. 

V. 

Pulled into life by a blood moon

that the religious saw as sign

that the world was ending

as your life was beginning.

The anniversary of my marriage

became the start of your existence.

None of the other children

awoke to your screams

that made the moon bleed, 

but I heard you, as I always will.