I’ve seen the room where I was born.
Sterile green walls that have absorbed
the screams and cries of thousands
giving birth and death their chance.
I’ve counted the tiles above my head,
burned the clock face into my memory.
I’ve heard the echo of my mother’s pain
as I sighed my son into this world.
I’ve sworn that things will be different
for him and me and the others who follow,
but I still feel my face pressed against
my mother’s breast and wish for more.