Fons et Origo

No cymbals pealed
at my birth, no flurry
of doves released into the air.
And the air did not
teem with loud punctuation, unless
you count the insects
that flew where the sun couldn't reach
the undersides of leaves.
What did love
have to do with such
a beginning?
A cloth of lace, a book
with fine print on thinnest
paper. These are what
you might call the sentimental
facts. I only wish
I could know what the clock
said; who crimped
the cord that severed
me into life.

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