Arriving in the second month,
there was a number two written on my wrist in pigment,
I’m not sure which, because I always struggled with science,
but there I was,
clean and new,
glistening in the winter sun,
my own and my mother’s blood decorating my skin.
I was peaceful,
but causing a fuss,
as people from all over the continent came to marvel at me.
No gold was given,
no star was followed,
just a series of phone calls sent wise men and shepherds running to a bedside,
somewhere in a London hospital,
where I was waiting,
wondering what the hell was going on,
and what the hell my purpose was,
as they fawned and fell about the place,
struggling to contain their excitement.
There was an angel across the room,
smiling as the sunlight found its way through the window.
She found her way to me,
gentle and with kind eyes,
her glowing fingertips,
tapping the small mark on my wrist until it glowed too.
She whispered something about being hopeful,
and I decided I would try.