Transitioning

Despite the quiet, the chill in her chest
made an awful sound when she breathed.
It was like a short rattle
in a long, abandoned corridor.
Several years after the flood,
there was a threat of fire,
and once the secret was out,
that's when the chill started.
It lingered in the corners
of the room. It hid in the folds
of her dresses.
Eventually, it ended up
in the same place, creeping
from her brow to her cheekbone,
from her throat to her clavicle,
before resting in her chest,
between the second and third rib
on the left side.
She once thought
that the chill was a messenger,
warning her about condemnation,
telling her that it wasn't enough
to be kind out of context.
Maybe it's not enough to be good, she thought,
but her god had other plans for her,
and the cold moved from her ribs
to her stomach, where it stayed
until a seed grew there.
The fire never came,
so she lit the furnace on her own
and raised the child by herself,
a small piece of her rib poking
where the cold once lived.