(after Group IX/SUW, The Swan, No. 1 (1915) by Hilma af Klint)

When I am born I bleed at the edges
like a painting in the rain. The midwife
is overbooked, the umbilical cord wraps
around my neck, an ambulance rushes me
from one hospital to another. Meanwhile

the swans inside me already kiss at the edge
of their reflection. Their chest muscles pumping
to power wings that beat against fistfuls of air.
Their fierce eyes stare into the other’s as if
to whisper: Why shouldn’t we merge our frantic bodies,

our too-eager hearts? Why shouldn’t we live
as something true and shining? It’s an osmosis
of sheer will when they cross into each other;
yellow beak into blue, black feather into white.
And there, within my small, bloody body,

there is transcendence; there are trumpets.