pro tempore

Lullaby

I began, in two halves, at the end
of a ragged, rushed half hour of love
that began at the end of a day spent
laboring over draft sheets and
dirty sheets and all that has occupied
man and woman from the first
beginning, which itself began at the
end of the void that was before

So the two half-me pieces met and
I began, which meant never being
that old dichotomous not-yet creature
again, but growing and feeding and
enjoying months of soothing warmth
until what surely was the end began
and I was carried off by end-time
disasters: flood, blood, and first-born death

And delivered into the waiting
arms of my expectant mother who
promised to explain, but promised as
a hushing lullaby to end my cries,
her soft murmurs carrying me until the
very end, yet I understand nothing
of this bleeding death called birth; but
I live it daily: warm new death, old life

.
I decided not to bother with the original, because it’s quite close to what I’ve posted here. Oh, poetry. Revision is so not my cup of tea.