If you like surprises, being born has to be the best,
   one minute swimming in nothing, and the next
popping out into a hot late July day in New Orleans
   like a gumbo of sweat and bad news,
because the war is over and your father has come home,
   but others are lining up, ready to take his place
in the murderer’s row, rat-a-tat-tat and all that, the blood
   that spills like ketchup from a broken bottle in lands
so far away they seem like a dream or a book written
   by a mystic with time on his hands, and that’s all
you had then, acres of time, your teeth biting off
   each day like a piece of rough bread and chewing it—
learning to eat, speak, walk, everything you needed
   to take on the days ahead, and going to school,
you had to sharpen your teeth for that, like the time
   in the third grade when some mean girls
were tormenting a boy who wore his pajamas under
   his pants, probably because it was cold at home,
and when I said, “Leave him alone,” they ganged up
   and sang, “Barbara and Scott sitting in a tree,
K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” which was so ludicrous that I turned
   and walked away, and the engine of their malice
sputtered, crashing on the wooden floor of the classroom,
   though how did I know to turn my back on them,
which is a question I ask myself every day, as in how
   do I get from one to four, the hours when nothing
is syncing in my brain, and I feel as stupid as molasses,
   but I still have my teeth, which are an asset
until the power grid in my brain box starts sending signals
   to the thinking terminals, and I am myself again
instead of a wretched baby without teeth, crying
   for my mama who has been dead for fifteen years,
but still lives in my heart, and why didn’t I ask her every
   question I could when she was still walking
around reading Revelation, because I knew she could die
   at any moment, and so she did—Pop! went something
in her brain, and she was off to her next adventure,
   as good a death as anyone could wish for,
though it left a hole in my little world, which has closed
   inch by nano-inch but without her archipelago
of selves: the laughing policeman, the Bible-thumping
   sun worshipper, maker of box cakes, diviner of mistakes,
right-wing lover of those with broken wings, despiser
   of lies, queen of the dream wreck, O Mama,
thank you for my body, with its gears and switches,
   its cannisters of blood and ooze, its “On” switch
for love and hate, its black bile and dance moves,
   its slide to the left when the jackboots approach,
its party hats and hard candy when the lights go out
   and the hurricane is swirling in the gulf,
when the monsters rip off their masks to snarl and tweet,
   O giver of all gifts, thank you for my teeth.