I was born on Saturday.
Turned 30 on Monday.
The days between, a blur.
Especially nought to four
and the early 20s
when breast and bottle was everything.
I’ve said before: I recall
crawling across the floor,
soiling the moment, thinking
A nought to four experience I think/
I hope/ I know the blood that came
like a spring after rain, came
from the mouth, the source;
found the gap,
out to sea. I’d turned 3 and got
3 stitches to match. This hurt,
after the buzz of the honey tree.
I know the slow trek across the desert,
camels, horses; long-legged birds
at the water; crocodile, hippopotamus;
the speared fish caught in the rip,
dragged by the net; the furtive
glance of primate: I climbed a tree
and disturbed the colony.
At 15 I hung from the curved
branch of an apple tree; slid
down in slow coils, and you fell,
on all fours, my girl.
I remember your chestnut curls,
the reddening skin, still pale, I skimmed;
and him, he stood erect,
petrified. We swooned, and he too