It must have been raining on May 7th, 29 years ago,
The same way with the same unrelenting mood
On my hair, on my body when the white towels needed to be wrapped on blood, alcohol, ether, and two latex gloves holding me up by the ankles,
My mother, how beautifully she smiled on Epidoral, the last one,
Must have been I, when she sighed out with relief of a marathon runner
At her finishing end,
No doubt, I would have gone back today or even yesterday
To that darkened home, no pain, no fuss, no moral bullshit,
No existential guy, Camus, Sartre, or Kafka telling me I'll be liable for this vacuum of hell,
Hell no!
I've got enough problems of my own,
When my mom quit smiling
And my dad stripped his shoulders of fake glittering stars,
And could only raise his hand to forehead for an army salute,
How could I ever feign ecstasy with this Life pill of mine?
Tucked in the corner of a mouth
That will never forget the taste of the only truth, spat out,
29 years ago:
“It's alive!”
