Raised from the dead

She feels for the gap between my ribs

for a breath, she feels for the flesh- alive

her hands, my mother caress my head, curl my hair

and wail, she wails me, a bird nursed back from death 

raised by Thumbelina's headscarf, she tied it first, thrice around my shoulder blades

tightening the grip in the hole winter dug,

then Thumbelina, smaller, her face white and her eyes yellow from lack of harvest

took me under her hair, sang me a lullaby to raise me again, once more from ash 

folded me carefully and presented me to my mother

her gift after long hours of winter, of a winter in the dead of June.