Being born 1. Each time I am born again. I unfold into you & begin to open and close, one after the other. I am on repeat. War on TV in the background mingles with the sound of love, bullets and breathing; but I don't hear anything. Because is not life or death that swells inside of me, but you. You write poetry like this and I translate as we go along. I embellish. I tell my own stories with my own silence, and wait for the dénouement. 2. I was born from the metaphor of you. There was no gestation, I just appeared and took the first ride out. I was born from you, then you from me. Together we birthed silence. We tangoed with love, but never called it our own. Love was a cheap date and old unchanged bedsheets. We remembered love in passing. It bridged an arc between. It wrote letters behind our back and claimed to know us better than it did. Now, we don't breed love. Sometimes it happens between arguments about the proper way to clean dishes or what to watch on T.V.