The Wild Place Before the Beginning

I wonder what's happening

far below my mind and heart

and

in my

uterus. Is my son

entertaining himself by swimming,

does he worry about his future novel,

or is he building tents

and imagining wild things

found only in fantastical forests?

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I can't help but dream

that his little world is extraordinarily

magical.

His world is hidden

from the one he'll one day

know, fear, love, and rebel against.

I can't help but imagine

that his current play place

is far more exciting

and strange than simply

a dark cave

where nutrients

mysteriously enter.

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It's the somewhere

where he first experiments

with his vocal cords; what does

he have to say? What does

he observe? Do his squeals

represent a connection

to some mystical force

beyond the simplicities

of human reproduction?

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He is learning to kick,

stomp, shove, punch, clap,

and cover his eyes. His thumb,

like a magnet to his mouth.

He has his own language

that he'll forget when

he rises to the surface.

In the meantime, before

his big arrival day, he throws

parties with Mad Hatters,

swims with dazzling particles,

and sits somewhere

between different boulders (my

organs, operating without

slipping into each other).

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All this neural activity

and wildness will be put on pause

when he leaves, when he'll be a baby

in my arms, on my naked chest.

He'll sleep and wake with confused cries,

he won't know how to walk,

crawl, or jump. He'll be

swaddled in a blanket

underneath a cute mobile

of dinosaurs and stars.

--------

I wonder what's happening now

and what he already thinks

of the sounds outside him.

What does he think of me?

What secrets does he know

about my body that I'll never know?

His heart pounds with excitement;

he is excited by the adventures within.

He doesn't know yet

of the matrix outside.

He doesn't know yet

that he is in an even bigger universe

that's full of enigma.