Vol 10, Num 21 :: 2011.11.25 — 2011.12.08
We burst forth
in a flood of blood and water,
Ever a messy, awkward entrance.
Liberated limbs flail wildly
in unfamiliar air
while we gasp to comprehend
what breathing must be.
Then they mop the mess.
We rest against breast,
People hover.
It’s all inexplicably normal,
The violent rupture preceding suckling sounds.
Birth from a pierced side is altogether otherwise.
The blood and water do not give way
to gentle communion.
It is an initiation into longing,
A pilgrimage of desire,
A loving unto death.
To be born
is to be at home
To be born again
is to be
ecstatic
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