Son of mine, swaddle of placenta. You came out red and I had clean hands, swaddle of wooden carriage, swaddle of beggars’ arms, swaddle of lurch of new town. The umbilical of fate’s string; I hung myself with the cord of my belly button once. But one thing is blood will always catch up. The blood I didn’t put into you leaked out. And other things leaked, before the truth of you. We conceived before I conceived, funny yes, funny words. A funny story of a mother birthingfuckingbirthing. You were lucky you couldn’t see, how the gods shadowed my stomach, how the creature stirred in there, swaddle of tonsil-stuck dank vomit, nose-burning wrongness. Your eyeball on the floor was taken over by some kind of divine. It stared at me as I wrapped the red around my neck, somehow it didn’t rub off, the red, but the veins of our children were not blue. My offspring: a walking stick, a (true) glory, a strife. And then one swollen, swaddled, bulging foot. What does my name mean, you ask? A clean white moon. Unbloodied. Unshone by the son. 

Son, swaddle of red, clean hands, new umbilical of fate I hung myself with but leaked out birthingfuckingbirthing. Lucky gods shadowed my stomach, there, swaddle of wrongness. Stared at the red around my neck, our children blue, true and then swollen, my name, clean white, moon unbloodied son. 

Red hands of fate leaked 

birthingfuckingbirthing god 

My swollen, clean name.

Rayna Moxley is a second-year Creative Writing major from Gaithersburg, MD. She enjoys creating art about family and the passage of time.