Geburt des Monicakinds

I woke. A tiny knot of skin on a silver table Set in the birth-theater, blinking in the glare Of electric lights and a strange arranged Passel of faces: huge as gods in their council. I was the actor who forgets his lines and enters On stage suddenly wanting to say,I am. I was almost all eye: they weighed me down, Two lump-big brown-sugar bags in a face Which did not yet know struggle, burden; How the look of newborns unnerves. Then They wrapped me in pale yellow like a new sun Still too small to throw up into the sky. It was midnight when they injected me With a plague; tamed, faded as imperialism, pox Had once put its palm-leaf hand over a quarter of Earth Saying,these. Now it was contracted to a drop: And in the morning I knew both death and life. Lapped in my nimbus of old gold light, my Huge lashes drooped over my deepened eyes, like Ostrich-feather shades over twin crown princes: wet heads Sleek and doomed as the black soul of an open poppy.