Slippery
The sculptor’s homeland abandoned— long before I was poured into this geography of pain. In the oily lattice of a womb where the umbilical flower is clipped like scrap metal, a flesh-chisel jerks awake— fatherhood delayed along the slippery corridor of uterine clay. Birth rings out: its cry fused with the sculptor’s hammer, a deep genital resonance— indistinguishable. Life swirls across slippery floors of space, renouncing nations, renouncing inheritance. I tried to walk the gentler avenue— the avenue of pleasure, but its soft exhibition never revealed itself. So I waited, like a penniless bird, beak sharp against emptiness. One day the passage of birth will close— and in hunger for another orbit I will carve new sorrow into the soft mud of earth. Here I remain, eyes pressed to the uterus, guarding the embryo of tomorrow— as though the sculptor’s hand still shapes me from the residue of his own disappearance.