Genre of Lack

I know from the tension in my gut,

that I just sat up from crouching

for the first time in a while.

 

When my eyes were closed,

I saw a fetus

shivering in the snow.

 

They’re open now,

and the skin around them is stiff.

So I know I’ve been crying.

 

I don’t want to put my glasses on.

I want to keep everyone around me

blurry.

So I don’t see them seeing me.

So I don’t have to wonder

if they see

the frozen embryo.

 

I’ve waited so long

for insufficiency

to disqualify me from existence.

 

But there is never any lightning,

or a mark of “final draft”.

 

I exist

despite

my

lack

of

genre.

Genre

of

lack:

my

spited

existence.

 

So this is what it is

to be born again, and again, and again.