Birth

I came in under iron weather.
Something was breaking already—
not me, but the air,
the pressure in the rooms.

No heralds.
Only blood,
the blind shove into light
that did not welcome.

I was delivered—
a parcel no one had ordered,
slick, breathing.

The walls knew it.

They kept their chill.
No voice bent toward me
with anything I could keep.

I learned the temperature first—
how cold waits in objects,
how it enters the body
and stays.

Outside, the fields went on.
Green without permission.
The lark lifted its sound
into a sky that did not answer.

Everything continued.

I lay there,
a small red fact,
breathing.