I'll take us out on something about life, I suppose.
[? Theresa, ?] I actually have, as I said,
written a poem with an audience in mind.
This is for anyone who's given birth and anyone who
was given birth to.
"Creation Myth for Jordan--
A Poem About Beginnings."
"That March day in Massachusetts,
when the second-rate poet went shopping,
he never thought he would buy that black shirt, the one
embroidered with that crazy Eastern motif, the one he knew
was not his style, the one he knew he'd only wear once,
the one he, in fact, really did only wear once, the one, yes,
that hangs right there in the closet next to something else
hanging in the closet.
His main thought was, hey.
I wonder how this would look on stage this evening.
He was vain that way.
Likewise, when she wore that cleavage clinging pink halter
top and that pair of ultra tight black pants, that outfit that
screams, I want men to respect me for my mind--
yes, that one.
The one that pilfers his speech even now-- she
was only dressing for a comfortable night
out with a girlfriend, a girlfriend who
flaked on her at the last moment,
leaving her to go out alone.
She was not used to going to poetry readings.
She had never been anywhere alone.
She almost didn't go.
But then she did.
She surprises that way.
They didn't expect to meet, much less fall into one another
and walk that thin bridge being built between them.
He was a man who had a rather profound liking for the ladies,
though, surprisingly, he was very shy about women,
especially that night.
She, while not known for starting conversations
with second-rate poets, was a little more forward than usual,
especially that night.
And somehow, though this is apocryphal,
as stories tend not to corroborate,
they wound up at IHOP.
And over a cup of coffee and a rooty tooty fresh and fruity,
he thought, maybe.
She thought, maybe.
As for you, well, you were not yet you.
Well, that is to say you were you potentially.
But you are not yet this ever-parasitic tsunami
of new discovery fueled by laughter and lactation,
leaving broken drinking glasses and ruined CDs in your wake.
No, you were not the bundle bringing
so much inestimable joy into their lives, as you are now,
but you were somewhere not quite there,
a small curved line, faint and forming
at the end of some egg named future.
Then, they loved.
And it was good.
That's all I can tell you now, son, as the goodness of this
is also apocryphal and may only be his recollection.
But they loved again.
And again.
And during the August of one of those agains,
the part of you that had been singing inside of her,
saying him, saying to the part of you
singing inside of her, that you began growing
into the song resembling them.
And when the growing and singing were done,
you were lifted from inside the soft dark of her
into light, into screaming, into breath.
After that, he took you into an empty room.
And while no one could see the two of you,
he held you above his head, looked upwards at the ceiling.
Imagine the fluorescent lights.
A sea of stars stretched endlessly
above a land smelling of salt water and village song.
And as must have happened in the lands your ancestors came from,
he held you close and trembling to his chest,
told you your name, thanked his father for your safe passage,
then asked for strength and guidance
from whatever hand authors fate."