Day one: I was born
with fists. Empty lungs
atop bowed legs and below
a balled up face. Skin dawn-pink
and eyes bear-brown, but it was still
those fists my parents saw first: knurled
walnuts on pumping, jabbing arms.
They laughed. I stopped swinging.
Day two: today. Speaking
to them at lunch I recognized
the sound of those fists
in my voice.
Dark Matter 