And now you
exist
outside the royal room of blood you occupied
and – without being shown –
can close a fist or yawn.
Practised, you look
already. Hopskip and bowing,
treading measure in a dance.
You only took to unfamiliar air
with your first taste of dust
yesterday as evening fell. All the falling,
all the flow around you,
hair and water, will become familiar:
mother, father: skin-to-skin.
You’ve swum the sea of welcome,
been lifted on the swell,
slipped waxy through the crowd of hands.
Your own breath sounded
the all-clear,
all’s well,
when you sang out a first
exclamatory note
about the cord that tied you
being cut,
the tying-off, your separate knot.
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