rebirth

there must have been languagein the womb. my thinlucid fingernails must have beenpressed to warm ink on pagessomewhere, maybe near her rib cageor printed on my umbilical cord,maybe floating,apricot light travelingthrough the tissue paper skinof my mother's swollen belly.

letters must have been waitingin my mother's eggs,my father's sperm swimmingfuriously through dim tunnelscarrying the periods, semi-colons, commas neededto complete the thought. becauseI don't ever remember not

knowing how words could sinkthrough my transparent handsand into my blue veins, howthey could fertilize my cortexesand lobes and hemispheres,cause them to grow into a network andmake me alive.there must have been language when my lids were sealedshut, my eyes bulging likeblack marbles behind them.I must have known the words tosay when I felt her insidesshaking and rolling,

before I lost them. the wordsmust have been resting onthe back of my tongue, mylips shaping the sounds to sayStop, I'm not ready for this,just a little more time, butthere was pressure and tugging and sterilelight. all of my words were wipedaway with my blood and chalkycasing until the only syllablesI could sound were screams. I lostevery word in the birth canal and

on the table and on the white tiledfloor, and I am only nowbeginning to find exactlywhere they landed, cup themin my handsand breathe them in.