Come Now

Simply put: I disbelieve.

Now I know another reason the virgin asked, “How can this be?”

The usual conception, here, but how can simple warmth

create new lungs to fill a tuba, flute, harmonica on the Appalachian trail?


There were only two of us, and so incapable of even checking

“write thank you note” off the list.

I feel wretched, so something has been altered, begun.

I get that.

But from here to terry cloth pajamas after a bath

and preferences for one kind of jam over another


It is a terror,

this dialectical hovering over the abyss of doubt.

I know the science—DNA, zygote, and such—

but really, it was just us, upstairs,

and science also schools of a thousand,

a hundred thousand missteps also possible:

low hormones,

placenta near cervix,

chord around neck.

So really, hope does fly,

while this grace remains confirmed by misery.