I am a child, Ambrose.
Today I celebrate my birth
during a pandemic.
In my conical party hat
I unwrap birthday presents
though I did not ask,
no one asks to be born.
I did not choose to be marooned
in my childhood home
other men strip of wood rot
and reframe, repaint, after
their own image. After they
have finished, it will be
as if I were never born. But OK,
I’m sometimes OK with that.
How many worlds had I gained
before the glottal stop clipped
short the Word I was born with?
What path is this my feet are
bared to? What phonemes
do the birds sing? How can I stay
home if I don’t know what
home is anymore, what art is,
what Thou art, and I have
lost the trailhead? My steps
scattered like bits of bread
are not the Bread. I watch you
read, your eyes glissade, in silence.
Come to visit you, I leave
without hello, goodbye.

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