When you ask your mother how you came to be

she will look at you presently but be somewhere else.

Her eyes will light with the warm glows of conception

and you will see in her remembrance that you came

forth from light — pure blinding light. As you continue

reading the story that her face always tells, you will

trail her eyes as they land on the figure of her mortal

husband. And then, just like that, the light will be gone

but your mother will be back with you presently. She

will tell you again with her mouth the answer that her

eyes never seem to corroborate…

                                                                                                           “Your father.”
Kamari Bright is our poet in residence for July. 

Previously: Chalice, and And the Moon.