i cannot remember my early years. this
    is called infantile amnesia, from the Ancient
    Greek mnasthai, to remember.
    my first memory is of my mother’s nipple.
    my second is blood in the washroom, copper
    in the steamed shower air. the body coming
    together again. tell me about these bodies, 
    and how they fell from the sky. when it was late, 
    and the gods had gone to sleep, the sun
    burning out in a fiery stupor, hiding behind
    the acacia tree. we took the bodies and turned
    them into light, and stories. we took them
    and breathed life into the night, their bare
    chests rising and falling and rising again.
    i remember the lamp burning out and
    being coaxed into darkness like slipping into
    a pool of water gently, so that the cold comes
    onto you slowly, feet and then leg, hip, 
    stomach, breasts. this body, not my body.
    the cold, still becoming. the body becoming 	
         whole again. tell me about the
    time i slipped under the waves and drowned 
    before washing up on the river bed, the body 
    breathing and dying once again. in another life,
    my first memory is still my mother’s nipple.
    the seed of rot nestling between my ribs,
    unfolding like the waterlily in spring. the days
    where i felt the heat on my chest and knew
    it to be the sun, and saw the reflection
    of my body on the porcelain, jagged and
    smooth all at once. this is when i knew the
    sun was not the sun i thought it to be, the
    seed growing into a fertile tree, fruits
    nestling between the leaves, ripe and plump.
    my bare chest rising and falling and rising 
    again, and every time i saw my mother’s nipple
    i hear you do not remember this. you do
          not see this and my breaths soften.
    tell me about the time i fell from the sky,
    when the sun was burning out, and the
    acacia tree casted long shadows against
    the earth. the gods were sleeping and you,
    bodies, fell from heaven onto earth. 
    you slipped into the river before drifting
    away, and now you have returned.
    sit down. rest. the fire has yet to burn out, 
    and we food and water to share.