The birthing scream uncoiled
across the grass, catching in our throats,
in our blackberry purple fingertips.

We came from the fields scratched and brown
buckets of berries under our arms.
My baby sister was born covered

in clotted milk, and we stood wide eyed
at the edge of the room, clenching our buckets in our fists
Through the window, the August sun turned dust motes

to flecks of gold, and flung light through the cream walled room.
Father tied the eerie blue cord with a string,
and we buried the placenta beneath the cherry tree.