Chronicle

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My birth. Before that moment, I was learning

To listen. Curiosity was pushing

Against the walls and forming fingerprints.

The more I tried to know the world, the more

It knew of me. It's funny how that works.

Or maybe not so funny nowadays.

I'm born into the past. I was, I was.

At least I think I was. The snowstorm bristled

Across the town, supposedly. I'm not

The best witness, am I? The public records

Account for me, the weather, and the stars—

Aligned or otherwise. It's all been filed.

Except the roaring swashes, dark and light.

For all I know the doctor sneezed or tripped

On something, nearly broke his stethoscope. 

My father—and my mother out-and-out—

would not remember such a detail. Birth

Is seismic, even mine. The details fall 

Into the chasm of my screaming maw. 

Of course, my mother said that my arrival

Was something graceful and ethereal. 

"You purred as softly as a newborn kitten.

No drama or complications, no bad news." 

Of course, the bad news comes. Just later, right?

Like when you go from “Everything‘s aware” 

to “Who am I this time?” Or back and forth 

between the two, a donkey starving, stuck

Between two bales of hay. Or when you see

That all of life is more or less a thing

That happens to you—sometimes more than once.

And all I know is I was born a child,

Completely helpless, begging to come home.  

I'm still not sure what I'm supposed to do.

These cloud forms usher light across the sky

As words unfold beneath my tired eyes.

Return the dark, return to me. Return.