362/365: The Heavy Child
I was born with a grief
that swayed in my belly like a heavy child,
the wet, dark soil from death's shovel
already considerable in the meat of my breast.
I was born tired.
My parents remember joy,
they look back at laughter and curiosity,
but I remember watching the march of the sun across my blanket,
across the fat skin on the back of my hand,
and I knew that change would take the things I loved.