Many years ago — born —
dairy country —
grandparents all dead —
mother, youngest of thirteen,
more cousins than cows —
born — same moment
when a drop of rain fell,
two hands squeezed a bovine teat,
a mango toppled from a tree —
a cool ocean breeze —
the smell of ginger from the nearby factory —
all grandparents in the ground —
none to pat the baby’s head,
none to get drunk in the celebration,
slip and stumble on the stairs —
even my father, a few months to live —
what’s the story? life’s that short, that cheap? —
I burst into consciousness,
blood and flesh and eyes and
unfolding tiny crumpled fingers
I could live forever at this rate —
but a generation’s already boxed
and on its way to being forgotten —
the next prepares to follow —
no guarantees, just breath
and the sound of my own voice screaming —
it has to do —
sometimes it’s enough
About John Grey
