The morning your parents conceived you,
clouds lay across the sky
like bodies all asleep in beautiful disarray.
Your father said:
The gray centuries of dawn
blow secret kisses to our bones,
and shadows coil along our spines.
Your mother said:
The harlequin moon
sinks behind the trees,
and leaf-lean branches
lift the palanquin of day.
When your parents embraced,
a mockingbird sang
like an ancient, exiled desire.
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