in order of appearance

birthday poem for rachael, sarah, and eliza

newborns are clocked as they punch in

but not you three,

born all-at-once.

as embryos, alphabetized,  

at birth assigned

neat consecutive minutes

that i knew were fake,

birth order was the only certainty

in that delivery room chaos.

baby a: pink.

hair-trigger empathic,

we could make you cry by pouting.

in utero you cushioned your sisters from each other,

a sweet malleable buffer

fluid, accommodating.

the waves would come later, in harmonious sound;

you are water.

baby b: terra cotta.

the weight of your sisters on your back

cramped you below deck,

craving space. pulled out barely breathing,

warming to the tawny gold of the earth you love,

runner’s feet shaped to its contours,

tides tugged by the moon, face to the sun.

you are earth.

baby c: blue.

on ultrasound you vanished

then reappeared, small but emphatic,

suspended, daredevil under my ribcage

defying gravity.

you were born all coil and release

to throw off your own butterflies,

catch the lift and fly,

you are air.

once a, b, c

once 2:31, 2:32. 2:33

always yourselves,

not lettered or timestamped,

but ticking.