You, Who Was I

Arms couldn’t hold. Eyes couldn’t hold.

Memories? There were none.

The surgeon dressed me for Halloween:

flour sack, doilies, shower cap.

You, he whispered in my ear, dear, you are not well.

Your baby, not well. But I wrapped his whole life,

I said. He was water, I was a well.

For days I pushed around a bell.

He repeated the part about baby, oh dear not well.

So I said: Cut! So he said: Cut!

Then I said: Wait! We didn’t have a date!

And he said: I’ll be careful! I know which parts!

And I said: cut him out, but will he be yours?

                                          

He didn’t think that was funny. Gave me a fan,

and we waltzed. A strange body commingled,

parts scuttled, and cackled, and jingled;

some, like family in an exam room, ended up by a curtain,

others, in the parallel world, where the surgical team

giggled re: football. This was so routine.

In five minutes, I was handed a person.

Unfathomable, cinnamon-hued, blue-

eyed, huge for his age. Specific and true.

Eyes couldn’t hold. What did I think I knew?

Soft burning heat of a world passing through.

We’ll have so much fun, I said to you.