He comes in the worst part of the night.
The moon has either set
or never risen.
There are no intelligent constellations
anywhere.
His Mother rips off her dress as
he slides fishlike from her V.
His Amniotic Sack.
The Caul of Good Fortune.
His eyes.
Dark and bright.
She names him Judas
because she likes the name.
When he is twenty-two he will
Win the War.
Across the hall someone else is born and
lives three minutes.
The air.
Filled with a high pitched keening.
Like Heathcliff on the moor.
First Published by Sacred Chickens