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Sky Birth

 
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​Vivi is an Iranian-born student at Queensland Academies Creative Industries whose journey to Australia was marked by hope, resilience, and the search for belonging. Her poem Sky Birth is a heartfelt tribute to multiculturalism, celebrating a place where language, heritage, and identity can coexist freely. Through her words, she captures the joy of finding a home where every accent and story is embraced without hesitation.



Sky Birth 

by Vivi Darvishi
The rain comes in sharp.

It clicks against the pane like teeth.

A thousand small mouths; grieving.

I wear the sun like a rash.
 
It peels me.
 
There is no god in this light
 
just the hush 

of a clean wound.

The language is a trick mirror.
 
It speaks with my tongue,
 
but forgets my name. 

Every vowel is a hole 

I fall through.

I dreamed I lived under a sky 

wide as a birthing bed,
 
stretched blue with veins.
 
The clouds had wrists.

The clouds bled milk. 
I wanted to nurse from them 

but woke with a dry mouth.

I do not call this place home.
 
Its flowers are made of plastic.
 
They shine, but they do not rot.
 
They do not speak
 
my mother’s fever.

I laugh here, yes.

In rooms with walls

white as hospitals.

I press my mouth
 
to a foreign shoulder 

and remember how it felt 

to scream in a language
 
someone answered.

I came with luggage.
With my mother’s hips
folded into zippers.
I came stitched
with films,
wet pillows,
a girlhood held underwater.

We all come this way
passport-eyed,
bleeding from the future.
Some don’t unpack.
Some are tombs
in rented apartments.

There were nights I wanted to leave.
The plane in my throat,
revving.
But I saw her
the girl I was promised.
She sat in the mirror
with a knife and a comb.
She told me:
“Become or burn.”

So I eat the culture raw.
I swallow it whole:
its spices, its gods,
its beautiful ruins.
I let it stitch itself into me.
A second skin.
A fever coat.

Now I write to stay warm.
To stop from splitting.
I write until the words crack
like teeth in sleep.
The notebook falls,
a dead thing,
soft on my face.

Still, I do not cry.
Still, I wait.
Still, I bloom like a bruise
under borrowed sky. 

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Last reviewed 25 August 2025
Last updated 25 August 2025