Annunciation
While we are still inside the womb, mites, specks
Of protein, not much more, our mothers host
Mere little flakes of spirit, tiny flecks
Of would-be souls, each one a proto-ghost
Though prescience of sweat and death we lack.
This long before the blood-filled screams and pain
Of labor—and not long after the slack
Flesh male-veined shafts have forgotten the stain
Each left inside the darkness and its threat
Of tart fluorescent agony and life.
We posit what the cosmos must forget,
Minute foretellings of anguish and strife.
..We come from paroxysm, spurting thrill
….And waste. All start and end with spill.