I was born in September’s dusky rage, on a night where
fierce rain cast red velvet shadows
onto my mother’s ravaged body.

Death visited, she said,
but she fought for her child
against the lightning blend
of impassioned colour,
the end of summer.

She claims that the storm made me restless,
carved something wild into my eyes
that will never be calmed,
that I am one who will never be satisfied.

She said this many years later,
at Spring Equinox,
while I ached and turned my face away,
pretended not to listen.