A Child Is Something Else Again

A child is something else again. Wakes up in the afternoon and in an instant he's full of words, in an instant he's humming, in an instant warm, instant light, instant darkness. A child is Job. They've already placed their bets on him but he doesn't know it. He scratches his body for pleasure. Nothing hurts yet. They're training him to be a polite Job, to say "Thank you" when the Lord has given, to say "You're welcome" when the Lord has taken away. A child is vengeance. A child is a missile into the coming generations. I launched him: I'm still trembling. A child is something else again: on a rainy spring day glimpsing the Garden of Eden through the fence, kissing him in his sleep, hearing footsteps in the wet pine needles. A child delivers you from death. Child, Garden, Rain, Fate.