Why I Decided to Be Born


Because in my mother's ribcage
a wishbone became compass
and the silver needle pointed here.

Because in my hand, a nib
of charcoal drew on newsprint
a face I knew was mine.

Because when I topped the last hill
on a long road home
and felt sorrow without pity

or regret, this homely life
with its plain face
and clumsy limbs welcomed me.

Because a sloe-eyed gypsy pried
open my tight fist and found
this berry earth, saying Isn't tart

as good as sugar on the tongue?
Because in a muddy field
two old ones stood with me,

eyes shining, crooked fingers
pointing toward a faint
barn light way off in the dark,

and I heard the muscular
idiom of round-voweled hills,
stars sparking over them, umlauts.

In the dark thicket of our many selves,
who wouldrft want to light the trees?
Who could not want this world?


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