Superman Aborted
How bird-like a new fetus is,
like a chick in an egg,
the delicate spine curved,
all the fine bones promissory wish-bones
tucked into s floating nest.
Unseen embryonic pathways
are not yet cleared, diverse divisions
are still dividing. Genetics uncertain
for an interval, a pause.
In the blood bound sac
a reptilian blastula
breaks through to be human,
a primordial development
reenacted as a timeless secret.
As a young child
I really thought I was Superman.
I would jump off ever higher elevations
arms outstretched
until at last I broke my legs.
Reality was my kryptonite.
Yet like a fledgling
I was just readying myself for flight.
My mothers womb was closed tight
within it still the residue of broken wings;
they would have to be expelled
before I could be forever grounded.
Songbirds now come to my bird table.
I listen to their chipping beaks as they
crack seeds.
None stay long for fear of the circling hawks,
yet they sing on the wing,
to me, they seem to warble triumphantly
of eggs hatched and eggs
unhatched.
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