Born in May.
Were you born in May?
Did you see all this before,
the mess and the bliss of it?
Batches of cookies burnt to black
but since you’d consumed so much dough it hardly mattered.
The dating and falling love.
And hating and more dating.
Empty cans rattling under the seat when you race over rises in the road
at speeds exceeding all caution.
Could you tell that your skin was fixed imperfectly on your frame
and you’d brawl with it,
hate and love it with cicada rhythms?
You, all shrillness and husk,
tumbling somersaults in some womb.
Were you born?
© Julie Ayers