my first breaths were drawn blue.
even at birth i wanted to be a part
of the sky and my mother said
i wouldn’t open my eyes for a month
so i listened to daddy’s voice
and wondered what I was.
maybe i’m late discovering
myself; my eyes just opened
and i have these new fingers spread
over the curve of my brow to shield
orange kentucky summer.
why couldn’t i have been a tobacco field cloud?
i have these arm angles that bend
over body and these palms of hands
that taste hay bales and sweat
off newborn calves’ backs.
the air is so dry
full of morning
here i am
drawing blue breath
and squeezing my toes around
all this grass they call blue.
but to me, it’s just as green
as the vines in my chest
i am rooted
in this place where
blue was my first breath.
