At the Birth of the World
Another day begins in grey: cloud cover, fog
cover. Our meteorologist explains these–
her calm voice all dew points & humidity–
so many ordinary phenomena:
a blurry oval of light like the crowing of the nearly new born
as if the sun needed to be shifted, tilted
ever so subtly so its shoulders might ease though
without any tearing.
Every morning is its own origin
myth & somewhere ahead then lurks another fall
or something like it.
At the fairground the farm kids brush the hides of foals,
giggle at the birth of calves in “The Mystery of Life” exhibit.
Their young siblings walk the midway,
sno-cone eager, balloon strings gripped
though sometimes they let go
just for the pleasure of seeing some color rise
then disappear into cloud.
Their mothers complain of wasted dollars & the weather.
Their fathers talk about sin &
the apocalypse some nights after dinner.
When we get banished from one world
we have to sneak into another or else
kneel, prostrate, seeking absolution. That’s that.
I heard a little voice say Bye-bye balloon. Bye-bye,
at the birth of the world as if to remind us
of what’s always been unattainable.
Author Discusses Poems