Begotten, I failed to thrive, all at once

and for years after, perhaps

this poem will be rejected before it can speak

from spite. I learned young that

every strand and bead of us is base, self-

interested only in making more

of itself

this poem will know it can never be good enough

Here is a sore-tooth socket of a truth

for a tongue to test –

we persist by errors

in our replication, success

for this whole bolt of shivering animal fabric

is in the dropped stitches, in

failing to be perfect

this poem will blame itself for signalling predators

this also describes a number of fathers

selfish patterns unstrung, then unshuttled, without

any binding, so

this poem will unravel red threads into the sea

this poem will fail to finish even that

I have stopped you going on. I did not

beget, I have

not made anything at all of myself

this poem was stillborn

I pick up this small body

of work, headed for the coffin-drawer, and it is still

warm and so

blameless

a great rack-and-rattle shakes the mistake of it from my hands, even

despite resurrecting you, it begins to speak:

This poem was still

born