by Pema Rocker

I wonder if my mom tried to kill me in utero. I wonder if I almost died at birth. I wonder when I became I, when soul slipped between stitches, into limbs, in-breaths. I wonder if I ever formed, or if it hovered always around edges of mother father am-them. I wonder the sound when I slips off like a loose garter. A stretched slip. Matryoshka shell. Empire. Is it a cymbal clash, a swoosh, a crumple of warm fabric faint crotch tang. Is it a crack a groan then gravity. Is it dust? I wonder the lungs beneath. Are they breathing? Awake? Are they stilled in terror? I wonder if she held her breath when she had me. They say to breathe. I wonder if astronauts feel like fish in the grand bowl of space: Life and then life and then life every two minutes a new pattern of stars in revolution. I wonder if I am in utero. Carmine haze, black cosmos. I wonder if I’m dying in here. Is this what it feels like returning from orbit, burning alive in the becoming.