the moment the day squinted its eyes shut
father parted mother's thighs.
he was without help, alone, trying to call me out.
out of the deep.
see, I'd learned to push and work
right from my formative years.

say, what could be worse than a wisp of a
human
struggling before the first cry?
a child is passed from father to mother,
in the dark,
amid giggles and moans of relief,
but he sees no light, sees no face.
he's come from the dark, and now he
sits in the arms of the same.

in the world where they laid me, children
don't have parents
i saw pharaoh changing the command:
parents are lights. parents are rooms.
put off the light, close up the doors

hey, i learned two things the devil loves:
whispers & growls—antitheses that thrive in
darkness.
a child runs to a mother, a whisper stops him:
put off the light, close up the doors

do you get bitten twice?

a child runs to a father, a growl stops him:
parents are rooms, close up the doors.

and what do you do when a father holds your face
in his hands?
you should gaze at him & smile,
hold his face in yours, too.
& when all is done, rest your head in his bosom

no, this child doesn't know love.
father has an arrow sticking out his chest.
it whistled past me. it dug out a growl.

don't ask for the blood. we are in the dark.
how do I stop looking at the fire that
burned my door, the water that drowned my sun?
where do I rest my head?
how do I hold a face?

i'm still learning to understand the night.
i'm hiding in my dark room. so that when the
night comes, i can see it creeping over me.

I've stored some of the fire that burned my door.