On the morning we dropped,
a torrent of red on white wool
(bath from our mother’s tongue,
hint of light),
On the morning we pushed
from her warm constricting comfort
into the pastoral shadow
of dark wings tearing at placenta,
On the morning we began,
little dark lamb, little white lamb,
our cleansing first breaths,
there were death songs,
there was call and response.
Did you feel a revelation
when the wind shook
the scarecrow in the early hours?
When it was still night — not day —
(a lid, a blind eye,
the back of God’s head,)
When the shepherd
Who said I will never
leave you nor forsake you
was in the croft house
drinking coffee after all night
In the fields, in our white-lambed
season of tender tongues
and gull-torn rectums,
when our unopened eyes
Are pried awake by
hooked beaks. Did you
hear our mother delivered
from the inside out?
Did you love the sheepdog,
her brown eyes watching
you fostered by the stovepipe?
As you suckled a strange nipple,
Did you know the darkness
that set you apart
was your complicated saviour?
I am white bones,
the dark spot on the X-ray
wringing its hands,
the loss the womb cannot
fully comprehend.
