In the beginning,
even before the momentary rapture of forever,
(or my arrival)
as a living thought of clay
in the womb of a young,
brown, hard bodied,
thick-afro-wearing,
twenty-one year old woman
whose veins flowed
with streams of rainbow,
and whose soul was a garden
overflowing with warm air
perfumed by layers and layers
of sweet-smelling,
pale yellow petals peeling back
the short, sporadic, almost clear,
cream colored baby hairs
growing out of the opening, leafy-green fists
of newly blossomed rose bushes
that blessed the living
by mourning the dead
with a love song that was sung in smiles
and joy filled tears
when she accepted my invitation
for her to be my Mother
in this fairy tale of a world
that was fashioned for believers
in personal myths of perfection
that become more misunderstood
each time they’re told
about places for people to go
if they’re afraid of the dark);
there were others like me with whom
I’d inherited the whole of history
(past and future) in order to be
human enough to see
the cruel, insane, hobby-like pursuit
of war and peace as a faint reflection
of a faith beyond compare
in the mysterious idea of staying
out of hell to make heaven,
which is as old as the pilgrimage
to restore the sweetness
between body and spirit and truth
so as to see each day in life
for what it truly is:--a gift
from those who want to live.