Sonnet to a Prenatal Stranger
I might be taken down by a sniffle,
or a strong hand could do the job, a kiss
from the wind of creation. It’s my soul.
A stranger before birth. It is morning
on the starry banks of eternity–
we undress in the first room we made love.
You undress. I am dead. I am not born
for a long time. You are empty, vanquished,
heading home. There are excuses. I know.
We are made for them, but today let us
hold hands and pray. Forgiveness — the only
miracle we need, is on down the bend,
on the other side. Come on, let’s rub hands–
spark again, later we will learn to sin.