Firstborn
       

I writhe. I nearly drown.
On the second day, I stop hearing
words, only my blood sluicing.
On the third, I split and multiply.
Boy arrives nearly spent,
a map crumpled in his blue hands.
1 hold it to my heart, my eyes, my eyes,
my lips as I lean toward his fretted brow.
He is more anguished than pleased
by the light. But I am not
his wretched keeper nor is he mine.
We have only left our private islands.
There is nothing to do but swim
so we swim toward each other.

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Copyright © 2015 Dara-Lyn Shrager All rights reserved
from Barn Owl Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission