Short story


Transported to the bedroom where your
mother birthed in blue
You rose from her sea frothing and foaming
A pentagon ghost of a stallion attached
at the navel to the most ancient constellation

Eons from now, I will tell the world how your death
was foretold in the eye of a needle

The room where you were born no longer exists
except in the memory of angels or demons or
extraterrestrial beings who witnessed your entry
into this pulsating world
Sweetness sang you from soothing lull of
amniotic dreams (it was your father cooing
happy birthday to you through the walls of mother
flesh though you had no language to
understand, yet) to the frightening crash
of flashing light and tide
Surf and sunder surrender to your
Ottoman touch
Bristle and moan
You have been born, again.

Leave a Reply