The beginning is a crack expanding outwards.
My mother spills me, soggy over NHS sheets.
The edges drip and curl and the nurse minds to fold me like a scrap of paper or an old letter, creased and crumpled as if to say, ‘let me put this away for you, in a cupboard or an old drawer.’
I am tidied inwards.
All the blood and the afterbirth stays on the sheets.