To the Fetus in My Wife's Belly

I saw you at the doctor's office today,
floating in space.
When you become a kid in school
they will tell you that space is outside of our atmosphere,
but you've been there already.
You were like a beam floating in a bowl of broth.

At this point, we are really your god.
You drifting unaware and us planning.
I plan what boat you will sail on,
I am packing the hull with supplies.
You sleep and wake. You struggle against
a sack that you don't know exists.

Your earth feeds you and you open
and close your mouth, sucking some syrup,
soft as the inside of a grape.

At any moment
you may hear the distant vibrations
of my voice.
You notice certain hums I imagine.

As I watched you, I wonder if you felt the light
shining from the camera, did you feel
the world was ending? Does your mythology have a
knife in the heart of perpetual darkness?

Do you practice religion? Is light knowledge or death?

It's me. It's my eyes. It's a flashlight that finds you,
bringing you home to a home you've never known.

copyright 2002 Peter Davis
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