It's just poetry, it won't bite

Mysterious Child

08.21.18 Posted in today's words by

Thomas Locicero’s most recent poem to appear here was “Happy Birthday” (July 2018)

Mysterious Child
after Gregory Pardlo

I was born far too soon, inadequate flesh,
undeveloped bone. I was born and taken
from the doctor’s hands to an incubator
with too much astigmatic oxygen
waxing my eyes. I was born with the feeling
of having been abandoned; my only
human contact was professional and
antiseptic from women with latex skin
not my mother. I was born with a real
expectation to die; a priest in black
was called in to wave his arm and mutter
in Latin. I was born with my spirit
suspended over my body urging
me to permit it residence inside.
I was a funeral planned when I was born.
I was born learning the language of machines.
I was born resembling a rabbit or a
chicken, according to my grandfather.
Then I obeyed my spirit and the machines,
and I became a mysterious child
convinced he was born to live. Apparently.

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