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.