Hold with your Hands

There is no such thing as an emaculate conception. I vehemently protest this idea applied to our living breathing and suffering bodies minds words thoughts images sounds songs shakes trembles dances embraces cold warms. I remind myself. There is no such thing as an emaculate conception. I fight the thought that birth can happen without blood without sweat without a violent burst of colors that pale the human skin without love without hateful exchanges without human animal and godly expressions often embodied in bodies embroiled in bed rituals dances debates debauch moments of fate. I tell myself there is no clean birth. There is no son no daughter no child without death without murder or unjust blame beaten upon the brows of a thorned and lowered head asking for forgiveness despite and because of all the terrible things the doubtful the hateful said. There are no poems blessed with a paternal moon that floats owning the world. There are no loves that escape lips without trails and tangles of bloody threads, fleshy breaths, and above all, there is no emaculate creation only an expression of something pure to be dashed like the first stupid idea that a lazy man has.