When the Soul began to write his life
examiners at the womb door asked:
“Does this one want to come out?”
The father left to think this over.
The mother was left to pethidine.
The baby came out forceps first.
Some say heroes are born to difficulty.
This one too found his birth
a rehearsal for his quest.
All he saw and heard and felt were
waltzes, global whining, ghetto blasts
that diluted his voices.
He changed from baby to good boy to poet,
always a goldfish jumping from a glass bowl
floundering on a skirting board.
While outside an apple tree grew
whose roots held light that sneaked in
through windows and door cracks.
Now the fish started to grow.
Soon it was too big for prowling cats,
mother and father complexes.
He broke the bowl open, found he could
breathe in air, and walk.
He stepped outside to the tree,
pushed his hand through the ground
felt roots that pulsed with light
and tasted the fruit.
He moved on. Another tree grew,
its root lights rose through the ground
into spring blossoms.
He looked at his body again.
Now it had brown fur and paws.
This bear would eat from light trees.
He lifted his head, roared.