Two small
feet in scuffed tennis shoes descend
into the
damp basement of a 2 story
colonial
house immersed in a turgid roiling sea
of
infinitely black weather. The boy drops
step-by-step
onto sturdy wooden planks,
one beneath
the other, until the cement
floor rises
to meet him
where he
stands alone.
Strange
vague feelings in his smooth belly
begin to be
deeply felt, quite soothing,
quietly. It’s so quiet here.
Somehow only
when by
himself
does this
misted rain fall unpredictably,
subtly onto
his receptive lap, gently
entering the
short ruddy virginal body to fill
an emptiness
he had not named before.
How does he
know to welcome this astonishing
surprise, like
those flying seahorses in the dream
falling
friendly, speechless and soundless
from a sky
so faraway?
becoming aware
of fruition truly, like the exact
uncertain
moment
(wild
stallion and chestnut mare
together
asleep under a sprawling
mesquite in
full flame….)
conception….
peaceful and
unruly--
mysteriously
happens,,
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