Natalie Christensen

Honestly, I don’t remember when I was born,
the exact time that is. I assume
it was night, after the sun had set, but was still
tossing a few rays my way, into the gray-sky looming.
I assume it was night when I arrived, so now
jetlag hangs permanently around
my night-owl neck, swiveling through the silence
on this side of the world. I assume it was a night like any
final breath or last shiver. I assume it was harsh
that night, unlike my native womb of warmth and blind
faith. I assume it was a shock of a miracle, to realize I was
not alone. Seven other babies were born perfectly
healthy, before the sun set, in that Midwestern Minnesota-
nice hospital. When did I realize that our little delivery
room was not the world? That babies are born
every hour? That the maternity wing was not
the world, that those foreign hands holding me belonged
to babies now grown tall? When did I
realize that the nice hospital was not
the world, that my mother’s womb was not
the world anymore, or at least not
the only world anymore, and that outside
might not be the whole expanding world either?
I assume one day the sun will rise on me
or for me, whichever-wherever-whatever
I am. And I will become, I assume, something in the light
of tomorrow, whenever it gets here.