Archive
Birth, Labor
by Dawn Manning
Even Pegasus wasn’t born standing on his feet.
He fell out
in a pustule of embryonic fluid, the first breath
relayed through
the Minotaur’s maze of biology to the sponge can of his lungs
drying out inexperience
with dangerous use. He landed thrashing the featherless wishbone
against minutes panged by
his legs unclenching from the tight fist of the womb—
the inertia
of having not yet imagined what limbs are for.
Dawn Manning (website) is a writer, photographer, and anthropologist living in Philadelphia. She won the Edith Garlow Poetry Prize in 2003, but took another five years to realize she might just be a poet. She is currently working on her MFA in poetry through the University of New Orleans and plans to wander through Venice before the year is out. In the mean time, she is perfecting the art of insomnia.
qarrtsiluni 