in the beginning

i followed

the light

shining between my mother’s legs.

a tunnel pulsing—

the mushrooming body,

a terrible,

brute emerging.

then: the long digestion,

mulled wine in the round

belly of life, spiced

with occasional respite:

a good sleep, tart oranges, touch.

honey-ed air in cavernous

organs of time, sweetened

with the horrible triumph

that light, shined just so, pinkish

on the horizon, will convince our bodies

we’re alright.

we’re no more advanced than the sunflowers,

turning our lives towards this light.