Third Trimester

The Beatles are on Sullivan

and I’m about to be born.

There is no correlation

other than my mother

is watching them on television,

and though my eyes are developed

by now, they’re closed inside her womb

but I swear I’m hearing something

with these new ears of mine

that I’ve never heard before

(not only this thing called “music”

but the frenzied screams

of American girls);

and yes, once I’ve entered the world,

the melodies meant for me

will be simple and patronizing,

designed to soothe,

make me slumber,

and I’ll wail, scrunch my face

instead, demanding, in my own

wordless way, that the mobile

above me start to chime

She Loves You Yeah Yeah Yeah.

Andreas Gripp

RF Image