Born with black silks of light
on the day the wind poured,
a stark difference in climate
than the rest of the week;
I see a fruit in you.

Born from the sticky placenta,
a name given and a name allowed
a name that will likely stick like
how your fingers stick to the silk
of the skin of your mother, your father,
shirtless and ready, holding you, ready
for your piss and diapers and tears and
failures and ulcers so beautiful your flaming,
flailing soul–
I see a hue in you.

Your tree is stern now,
roots running from nothing in the south
its leaves have cried and rotten
and branches have been built from
odious hearts of melodies,
have twisted and grown themselves
properly upright, ultimately in
anticipation to catch you.

Your intelligence is inevitable
your faults will be never-ending
your skills will be invaluable
to life,
to love,
to your prospective death
so live like it matters,
though it doesn’t–
hatch keys from locks,
birth blood from tears,
and learn to pass through—

                                                (your first steps will pass)—

Pass through,

                                                                 (your first thoughts have

Pass through,                                        been forgotten)—

Pass through,

                                                                 (your first love will be

                                                                 heavenly, and never found again)—

                                                                  (the day that you have
Pass through,                                         it all, you will sit down–)—

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Pass through,                                         (–and it will all crash around)—

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And be forever.