Inheritance

Stacy W. Dixon

Childbirth was
a whispered secret,
passed to a long line of young ears
until it no longer resembled itself.

Pushing him out
with the strength of my own muscles,
into the cold open light
of too many voices.

My trembling body
was covered by a warm blanket.
Like the weather outside,
this bleeding went away
after a few weeks.

And I learned to feed him,
but he already knew
how to consume parts of me
with a smile.

What can I give him
that will not be heavy?
It should be the right piece
of myself.
Small enough not to cast
a shadow.