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The day we met, after not meeting—

me, the butterfly, with a quiet past,

you, catchy, like a tune;

I recited an old story:

I was barely there and still already breathing.

Mother’s heartbeat was my teacher.

Doctors said I was a natural.

Father said I got my brains from him—

I knew my birth had been a magic trick;

I only discovered breathing around you.

I danced all twelve steps, like it was destiny,

in my tight button-less red dress,

swaddling my body like saltwater pruned skin,

while underneath, in a hollow cavity,

I filled with a drunkenness,

the air, I suppose, full-bodied and heavy,

moving inside me like a hurricane.