The doctor, hip bumping the door, appears
with you, blanketed, cradled like a lesson.
Mother blood in hair, you do not paddle
a cry toward me. You do not open
your eyes like a creator. He would swear
he carries you in the fluorescent hall,
but you sluice into me. You may not have
judged if it is good--what you fashion
of me--worthy of your heart and lungs,
but I, cut through and sculpted by runoff,
temperatures streaming, I already am young.
Jay Paul, 1999
from Going Home in Flood Time
No comments:
Post a Comment