|
|
 |
"When I Was Born" originally appeared in the 1987 issue of The Walrus and has been reprinted in honor of the magazine's anniversary.
When I Was Born
By: Dorianne Laux
the world was filled with fat hands,
pillows, my own earlobes. Too full
to eat I grabbed at feet, pink toes
sucked into a single idea, blue milk,
colors on plastic bibs, the bars
of light banging into my crib.
Then one day there was a new bed,
the wholeness of a room saved
in square chunks like an old puzzle.
I was closer to the floor, farther
from the ceiling and all the windows
showed was sky. At night sockets
hissed, the moon lit, my hot body
turning toward cool white sheets.
Then the world began to make patterns,
designs, dishes stacked by size, cars
in the driveway, down for Off, up
for On, socks and underwear in the top
drawer. It all made sense, rabbits
in holes, fences erect, until the wind
came unpinned, began whipping the dust,
I crawled under a bush, found a lizard
crushed, eyes spit out on either side
and twitching in the dirt, the tail,
still alive. All the walk home I watched
the sky, waited for the world to take me
by surprise, reach up and twist its arms
around my chest, squeeze out my eyes.
But what I saw was a bluejay lift
from a wire, her body floating on
nothing but air, fling on strong note
as she stretched her wings to disappear
in the arms of a tree. For years that day
followed me, went to school in my lunchbag,
flattened itself into my books, screeched
the chalkboard with heat-white claws,
crawled under bathroom doors.
And when it wouldn't let go I kicked
the boys on the stairs, spit in gutters
and stepped on the cracks, ran home
to my room, stripped to my socks, turned
on the radio and shut out the sky.
Then spreading my arms I closed my eyes
and taught myself to dance.
{ Return to 2007 Contents }
|
|
|
|
