I don't often share my fiction here, but I'm particularly excited about this poem, because it was just accepted into a local art/writing show at my area art gallery. It will be interpreted by a visual artist, and displayed along with a piece of visual art that I've interpreted into written art. It's a pretty neat concept, and I'm honored to be involved. Also? I'm pretty thrilled with how this bit of poetry turned out. I may just have to expand on it.
I was born in a rush of crimson on a white day in January.
Naked tree branches scrape the empty sky; an infant's screams pierce the snow-muffled
The child is lifted to the mother's breast the mother winces, spasms, blood gushes.
I am the afterbirth to my sister's anticipated coming.
"You have another daughter," the doctor says, surprise tingeing his voice. "Congratulations."