A Memory of Anya’s Birth

Hadiyah Huma

I was not born of water, or earth,
but of the space between buildings
where milkweed grows. I knew nothing of morning dew
before you, knew only the musk of subway cars lingering
above grates in the pavements. My mother’s garden
was planted indoors, she filled the windows
with vines and roses. My trees, chalk
drawings on the sidewalks.  Pigeons and sparrows,
all I knew of birds. Bridges and murals
were my landmarks, and before I left the city,
before I came to you, I visited the building painted
with Blue Whales: the mother and child moving
upon the skyscraper as if city air
were as buoyant and giving as water.