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Birth

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I was born into the cold lungs of February
With a gaping mouth screaming protestations
That fell like music on my mother's ears.
I was cradled in arms that didn't yet know me
That would never know me
That would never care to,
And it strikes me as inimical
That such an intimate act
Be shared between strangers.
But I wonder if perhaps
This is when I became infected
With the mercuriality of my father
or the impetuous ways of my mother.
And let's not forget
The mental illnesses she curses
And blames on her mother-in-law.
Perhaps it was then they crawled into my nose
And made their infectious home in my brain
Rendering me laconic and broken.



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