Cuts

I am not an emperor, nor a pharaoh,

but I was born caesarian, the same

as Caesarion that day in June.

My mother said as much and showed me

the vertical scar on her belly.

So many mothers died or were in 

danger of dying from childbirth

when they cut them open to save the child.

Saved for what? From what?

Don’t say life. That condition of body

is the default setting for centuries

of fictions that hold power in place.

For labor? For gold from the earth? For whom?

She is not Cleopatra.

The poison injected long ago

remained at her throat.

And now, all these years later,

my mother is dying

and again, I am being born.

Soon there will be a cut,

vertical in the earth,

and again, I will be spared.

Buried alongside her anti-Antony,

it could be any grave in this earth,

but it will be hers;

she who daily died to save me for this life.

This life.

Mine.