My mother never wanted a child,
but I came anyway.
She wept and cried, her belly swollen.
I was born under the sign of Aquarius
and my mother cried more than ever that day;
her hands were fish-white and clasped
in those of the midwife.

The midwife knew things--
she looked at stars and bones and hands,
and calculated and hallucinated,
and she told my mother that I would be like water,
as cold and angry as the black ocean.

I was thrust into a watery chaos,
white and thrashing and furious.
My mother sobbed and the midwife shook her head.

I was born to be water.
My veins flow with it--not red and warm
like the dogs and the men,
but blue and cold.
I will run and I will dance,
and eventually I will die and feel at peace,
my lungs filled with water
and knuckle-white fish nibbling on my toes and my eyes.