|My parents kissing in a kitchen.|
In her loop-eyed dress my mother—
enormous in her belly, I loom.
In a commune in Fort Greene
she typed and typed her dissertation.
Upstairs a woman practiced primal screams,
a wild-haired painter mourned his dying wife.
My parents had already made my life
near the mass grave
of hundreds of Revolutionary soldiers,
a cockeyed brownstone full of junkies,
somebody who stripped my parentsí jalopy
down to wires and bones.
Soon they sold all they had
and drove to Madison to have me.
Had five people over for pie.
It was done then: They were married.
Weeks later in their bedroom I was born.
In piles my motherís writing
watched us from unquiet bricks and boards.
|Copyright © 2013 by Tess Taylor. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on August 21, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.|