Was it the way the leaves fell,

streamlined, as I burst

bawling onto greenery,



or the first time sunlight peeked

through dark branches overhead—



or the reddish-purple skin

stretched over my sleeping body,

surrounded by fluid? What phantom



snaked around me, whispering

which light I would swallow

until it hardened like a beam



in my chest, which dreams

would become my luminaries

as each season grew hotter.



Warm rain, sweet on

my infant tongue—could that

have been a sign. A hot palm



canoed against the valleys

of my own. Cold warbling



through my pores. The way I inhaled

the smell of old books

from garage sales, or how I listened



to the songbird when it caroled

from its own little tree.



My fingers, stretching, outlined dark

against the sky. The curve of my rib

above my heart. Movie nights



with my father, the screen a flash

of bright lodestar. None of these

I can diagnose as the stars



that sculpted me, rained me

clean as a white sheet,



left me waiting to ask

why I breathe the same way.