Early Birth

If you give birth to death,
does that mean death is alive?

The little death-life slipped from between my thighs with an effortlessness that caused me to pause in awe before plunging both hands into the warm water that caught you before I could.

You reminded me of a pulpy mango seed; I felt your solid center even though I couldn’t see your finite boundaries. You were tendrils and wisps. Despite my best efforts to preserve you, after a day in the fridge, you lost your plumpness, caked onto the sides of the bowl. To coax you out of your hardened state, I poured water over you gently.

You were small but not inconsequential. Already, taught me so much.

For five weeks, I was you and you were me and now I am just me again but with less purpose. I worry that I put too much on you; I wonder if you knew you were free.

——

The night before we burned your body, you revealed yourself to me:

I am Lea, you said, named after your matriarch.
I am laughter and veils, abundance and fertility.
I am a reminder that things are not always as they seem.
I am cosmic trickery and infinity.

I laughed through my tears until the candles' glow grew long and skinny. All the faces in the wooden beams laughing along with me.

——

When it was time to send you back from whence you came, the logs lit fast and sent up an orange flare against the purpling sky. My love and I–we drank deeply before offering libations. We sent poems and prayers with you. Hopes and dreams that belong to you alone. You were born from love and released with love. It’s love that keeps you in my bones.