They say memory
begins after we acquire language,
but surely my birth
must have left  

some sort of impression,
and before that
my time in the womb,
when I was nothing more  

than a tiny hand,
pressing against my mother’s
when I was less  

than the size
of a lima bean,
sprouting in a paper towel,
when I was two

cells, dividing,
when I was one cell
rising up
from primordial soup.