Dear dome of impenetrable darkness—
It is only fair
I give you some glimpse of my own birth:
that was the year the Andean volcanoes
sent England magnificent weather:
tides blasting against the shore,
light dashed across the sky, the slant
of rain coming down like a puppet’s strings.
Mid-August, a comet smeared the inky heavens
for eleven clear nights. Weather
has bookended my time before you.
My father called this icy slash my lucky star,
my mother called me her animal—
but they made an animal out of her.
My little nourishment clung, the placenta
breaking apart as if a small planet, earthbound.
I tore at her teat as Heracles suckled Hera,
pooling a halo of milk, leaving the doctors
to only think, perhaps too much milk, sequestering me,
giving her twin pups to lap and nip at her breasts,
drawing away the only thing left of my mother.