The air, then

I am 100 years pregnant, old as a tree
that must pry up its roots
to wade through the swamp-air.

It is the Year of the Rat,
and you, fetal, are curled and pink
inside the shredded nest of my womb

The world is a heaped pile
of broken trinkets and sharp edges.
The ether is a living virus

we breathe in sips. I want you to know
that when you were conceived
we shared air like water,

dipping our faces
in its cold pure sweetness.