A mother should tell it.  A son’s birth.  The land and the church of an unwasted womb awaiting the labor storm (man coming from woman, that circumambient regeneration where opposite comes from opposite, a meditation of law proclamating rebellion, the very focus bringing about all the discarded and disregarded effluvium of afterbirth, the forewith pretentions of a “let there be”, and it is was but a bud, sexless and innominate, and only that first cry of I Am over the breaking waters of identity do the witnesses search the girded loins of truth and say, “Yes, he is.  He is a man born of a woman…”) and in that woman’s cry, the mother, in that pain that is desire and thus not alluded to evil—the curse, the promise of rain to the perpetual drought, the cooled aridity of browed sweat, the seed taking root in the broken up soil, the furrows, animation of emanating electricity, like charges like and nothing of covalent bonds, no shared anonymity—the promise, earth’s gift in the eternal replication telling it, the let there be, the I am.  And this, this was Benjamin Threnody’s birth as a mother would tell it wounded in love and murder, in blood loss, in the keeper of brothers that say, “There will not be for I am not…”  Before words.  The not-words of tears, first tears, the no furthers than your own birth—the first song—David’s son first song.  He was that stranger unto himself, the visage occluded, opaque, the not-seen in seedless fathering’s—the man of man drunk on placental immunities, maternal protection (his rage, his first cry, not to the dying of the light, but the night-morning dawn’s awakening, the candlelight of Marie Toussaint’s attendance a lambent and horrid interference to his first deed here on earth, prying his cherub-chubbed fingers loose the cord that he held like a rope in a tug-of-war, his strength not enough to escape his entrance to this world and his role, the old cyclops of a mid-wife spitting rum on his eyelids to clear the amniotic muck …) yes protected, immune from his father’s judgment, a not-here but nonetheless precursor to his form taking form, while his brother blue, choked, took his first of few remaining breaths, his cry a weak plaintive to his stolen birthright.  The mother, Bethany, pallor almost white with bloodless dry chapped lips asking to see them, and in seeing them naming them, giving them order, a first and last not precluded by the father, then crossing a river and its dead beneath, his and his wife’s sins buried there, with no end and no beginning, meeting only heaven’s raindrops in its cycle of starts and meeting only the devil in its no end feedings to the sea—the deal made on all thier surfeited secrets born there, that night, under an old voodoo woman’s (motherless) tutelage…

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