I was born next to a trolley car
in the deep south.

I bet that air
weighted itself
on my mother's chest,
as she stretched
out on the ground
like an ugly angel,

her bare feet
spread and burning
on hot concrete and
dry whistling weeds.

I think she wore
a blue pinafore
which she held up
with two gripping hands
as a scream
ripped through her body
like an iron wedge.

The sun was just nodding its head,
owning the sky,
baring down like a blunt rock of angry light.

There was a groaning,
a sickness in the grass,
and a wide open smell.

The trolley car just rang it's bell
and pulled away from us,
leaving me naked,
and her,
fat and bleeding.