by j. alan nelson
We are lost in that beginning
before you slid
from my motherâ€™s womb
felt limbs move freely
drying in air
light pressing your eyes.
Iâ€™m not here to analyze your feelings.
nor hash over times
long before lost documents
unwritten journal entries
sounds of adult conversation through the vents
or unjustified optimism as the dark army nears.
Iâ€™m not testing you to see whatâ€™s wrong with you.
I just want to know what you want for dinner.