Just before midnight, in the unpreventable moment
my mother woke up to give birth to me,
I jumped out and spilt her blood on the floor.
My first angry poem, scream at the top of my lungs,
in the pale room.
A dormant city blessed the muddy wreath above the cradle
asked me to keep the noise down.
Mother went back to bed.
The following day I learnt to
write on white walls with red letters.
illustration Nick Victor