for the doctor who took me out of my mother’s womb

A baby never chooses

to be born. That much

I can tell you.

If presented with

the option, I would have

turned & climbed

up the birth canal—

if I’d seen the

copious dolor

which awaited, fanning

out its talons, seducing

like a salesman, ever-willing

to beguile,

with the lie

of love and life,

how much sorrow

you can take,

that you’ll bounce right

back like the balls

in every lottery there is,

the one you’ll never win,

like a worm that

arises

to the surface,

failing to burrow back in-

to the earth, be wise enough

to leave the world

behind,

leave the birds

behind,

proof it isn’t

sightless

to begin with,

that eyes

are not the only way to see,

that worms have learned

at last

to finally snub 

the falling rain—

this somber convocant,

its call in April

air, its hoodwink

that it’s here to

bathe them clean.

©2026 Andreas Gripp

RF Photo