[[bpstrwcotob]]
I was born without breathing and placed in a small hand-painted basket, oxygen cupped over my fragile mouth.
It was the weft and wop of the weave, pulled / over my knee, muscles and tendons that / repaired my split thigh, a pattern, the surgeon said, / a kind of living fabric that carries me forward,
It was late August, not a tree or lick of shade to be seen; the sapping heat pulsed like a demon. We made our way in a straight line toward the recreation room, a dreary concrete block building, as if we, too, were prisoners.