i.

I used to believe that babies
were created from stars

when my mother’s belly ballooned
in the night air,

and I felt the pulsing
echoes of light

beneath my fingertips pressed
against her belly, imagining

that I was gazing through a windowpane
into another dimension.

ii.
My mother carries the ghosts
of two children in her arms,

and the lullaby haunts me
while I sleep,

dreaming of two angels
running barefoot across the heavens.

I would give them oxygen
from my lungs if I could hear

their two heartbeats next to mine,
something to hold onto when

my legs are trembling
beneath me.

iii.
Biology tells me about
chromosomal abnormalities,

but to me it seems more like
two stars collapsed into themselves,

millions of particles of light
exploded before I was born,

supernovas burning in the darkness.
Yet I’m still feeling the emptiness

where constellations should’ve been,
cradling me in their arms.