Amnion

A gown.

Living lace.

Veil of biology.

My body’s finest tailoring. A bespoke garment made only once, for only one.

Hemmed heirloom—meant not to last forever, but to hold eternity for nine sacred months.

Divine garment.

Part veil.

Part shroud.

Silken cradle.

A first robe, swaddling within the cathedral of my pelvis.

Caress offered on my behalf, cradling to the rhythm of my belly’s tide.

Until the moment came—and it burst, not destruction, but annunciation, spilling forth with sacred urgency.

Pressing and parting, wrapping in the swell of each contraction—a sacrament of rupture, a holy offering surrendering babe into my hands.

And then it waited, patient remnant,

for the first latch,

the first feeding.

Breast and newborn in communion,

summoning from the womb a choral echo: second birth.

Present witness, folded silk.

What once held oceans now resting in the palm of my hand.

What once curved around becoming, now slack and speechless, radiant in red,

a delicate drape of satin,

glistening with memory.

The final fabric of a vanished temple.