In glory of genesis
the oval universe
took form surrounding me,
and I was born to bliss
inside the mother yolk
where bathed in tranquility
I felt my world immerse
me in soft nectar, soak
me in warm sustenance,
in nurturing abundance.
There is bread not of this world.
But as swollen cells divide,
now multiplied to make
me large, articulated
with heart and lungs inside
my skeleton and skin,
my world is dissipated
and I can only slake
my thirst with bitter poison—
these limbs that I was given
break on the dome of heaven!
There is bread not of this world.
Despairing, my beak cracks
the vaulted firmament,
my rotted paradise gives way;
claws rip it wide and clamber through to climax
in waves of air and light
that flow forever, flow by night and day
to lift the feathered ones in their ascent
to heavens reachable by flight.
Here food and drink are mine; yet still I wonder,
will these new heavens also split asunder?
There is bread not of this world.
