Zaytsev Artem

Waterbirth

I am from the bottom
of a swimming pool, sunk
by a small hand into careless
blue. I am from sweet water
wrung from tiny gold roses,
huge red blooms, from blue
petals. I am from the the river,
from the sea, from the inside
of someone else’s mouth, spat
out of my shell like a chicken
in the yard, squawking for
the taste of their tongue.

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Waterbirth