Birth and Death

We aren’t born alone
we enter the world
slipping into gloved hands
between wet thighs
wrapped in the soft cotton
of hospital blankets
placed within the waiting arms
of exhausted mothers
who would do it all over again
and we feel this,
the cushion of protection
an anchor in a dark world.
It may be our soul’s purpose
to experience love
to have bodies that bleed and shiver
to know the bliss of touch
against skin that folds itself
around our spirit
but we must die alone
even children, even babies
as our our mothers’ hands grasp
and pray
and plead
Death pulls children down
it has no bias,
no sense of justice or tragedy
Death becomes like days, months,
autumn moons
a thing of heavy reality
Mothers can’t thwart it
love isn’t enough
and so we must go alone
into the dark