Half a day’s pushing couldn’t shove me into the world, so they snipped me from her stalk. The doctor tossed the hot potato to my father, who couldn’t find the penis he’d promised himself. He delivered me to my mother’s breasts, where I wouldn’t taste her offering. I.V.’s take best to babies’ heads, still soft enough for molding. But glass boxes can’t hold cuddles, only holes drilled for her fingers to brush mine. We can’t leave our grief rootless—we have to point our blame. When I stretched my toes, they pointed at her. Her first had spread back into the womb, dark and formless void, deaf to her questions at the ultrasound tech. What had she done wrong this time?
It was the first attempt to save my life, successful enough. But we bear our birthmarks—a sidestep from perfection, her constant reminder to give praise for what will mourn. The doctor told her it was a 50/50 chance I’d live through the week, lower still that I would grow into the girl who patted her next beach ball. “I remember being there. You fed me apple juice,” I whispered, feeling for kicks. “She’s full of apple juice.”
