there was a storm:
snow cascading from the clouds
the doctor
halted by the chaos
sat home by the fireplace
so I was delivered by a
stranger.
there was the cord:
connecting my mother and I
wrapped tightly
around my under-sized
neck, turning my face
blue, like I’d be for
years.
there was my grandmother:
on her own death bed
refusing to
hold me or see me,
my mother’s daughter,
who took her name
Dorothy.
There is a matrilineal lineage:
and a traumatic birth,
a precursor
for an anxiety-induced
identity formed by
crisis.
Nothing Exists. 
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