Coronis

A god chose me,
depriving me of choice.
All the same,
I made my choice: a mortal.
The birds were silent
as I reached for his hand
and curved it round my belly,
made pregnant by the god.
Then the crow told Apollo
whose sister murdered me,
destroying my fire with fire.
Midwived as I died,
I bore a mortal god
for whom life
is a double gift, and birth
a memory of dying,
each breath a healing.
Even in death
there is longing.
Can that be healed,
Asclepius?