Conception, 1967

She woke to webs of valentines strung across the ceiling
above their married-two-years/wedding-night-virgins double bed.

I waited patiently, weighing different combinations
of fatherly eloquence and motherly love,
trying on traits like discount shoes,
leaving them in piles in the aisles of infinity.

He hung them while she slept, romantic spider with big, thick hands,
spinning silk of paper and scotch tape.

I waited patiently, studying tintypes and photographs,
maps of Germany and the British Isles,
reading names and passports,
ignoring the stillness and impossibility of time.

The red hearts circulated gently in the easy February air
whispering promises that would, as it turned out, last a lifetime.

I waited patiently, until, I began,
exploding in a symphony of cytoplasm,
splitting and multiplying in deafening combinations of electrical impulses.
Crafting instantly my list of things to do and people to love,
already onto the second page before my mother’s breathing slowed
and her laughter bounced off woven paper hearts
to germinate the nucleus of me.

Despair

the detritus of which is hope
like tea leaves in an empty cup

telling fortunes and promising tomorrow

I am a wall...

I am a wall against which firing squads
execute their victims

riddled with bullets, flesh and brains

hiding innocent children
and determined not to crumble