That which comes before
mama
as the ink of the eye.
A rustle in the lining
the fluid disrupts, amniotic
the womb
& mouth
it cherishes.
Now, lapushka
—your cellular prison
is motherly fear & hope.
The baby becomes
viable, 24 weeks,
& slips past the need for developed organs,
a continued cocoon,
a survival
wide as the palm of your hand.
The wound of arrival
is just enough
to signal desire,
live—
away from sustenance,
the first sound through which you enter
your own lungs