When first conceived, she attached to the lush flora of her mother’s womb

and the two cells she was divided and multiplied in an arithmetic wonder

of becoming.

From buds her fingers blossomed, and feet sprouted toes to tread the waters

in which she bobbed, tethered by a rope that delivered three squares a day

and then some.

She was not the first occupant of this inland sea; a sister who grew awry swam

there before and died when born, leaving the womb empty of all but the salt

of Mother’s tears.

Did the sharp tang on the waves of grief flavor her own growing so she emerged

a quiet survivor, every breath measured, each milestone a triumph in a story

not her own? 

Or was this the way things were meant to be, with one the herald preparing

the place for the fully-formed-other who would devote her life to the narrative

of ebb and flow?

© Dana Hughes 12.14.21