Open your mind,
say the old voices, the new voices.
Once Saturday morning I heeded those voices,
eyes burning, and went outside
in the light of the grass, as green and gray
and lifeless as the bread we earn and live by.
I unlatched my cranium there, facing the east
like a faithful devotee,
held my watery mass in my two hands
and little do you know how like a fly you were,
caught in the web of my nerve endings
How the spider kept house in the corner, parasitic,
despised by the housewife
and the dendrites stretched like household plants
to defy the roots.
I said goodbye to the waterspout and the cobwebs
like a seed in a mound of mud
and split along the hilum of my skull,
breathing air for the first time.