First Memory

In a field, we came upon a ram.

My mother tucked us in behind her

—two shivering girls, skinny

as river reeds.

The ram charged. And charged

again, my mother bending to its force.

She did not cede

as she was struck.

For weeks after, a purple nova grew

along my mother’s thigh, deeper

and deeper, a new star for me

to orbit.

I remember her voice

growing as the ram came near,

thinning

as the ram withdrew.

There was no one

to call—it was only lament.