Water Table

My earliest wish was not to exist,

to burst in the backyard

without violence,

no blood, no fleshy bits,

mute button pressed

alone behind the rectory

where no one would see me.

This wasn’t a plea to be found

or mourned for, but to be unborn

into the atmosphere. To hang

in the humid air, as ponds vent upward

from the overheated earth,

rise until they freeze

and crystallize, then drop

into the aquifer.