Birth Pains

I do not remember birth pains
nor the indignity of being slapped on
the back by masked men, held naked
by the ankles before strange women,
inspected like an archeological specimen,
no, I do not remember.
But to be born again each morning,
to leave the warm, cozy, amniotic
safety of the bed where all night long
I floated in a suspension of sleep,
this is where the agony starts,
the pain of beginning. The sharp glare
of light on helpless eyes, cruel demand
on arms and legs to move, the torment
of flexing a muscle still paralyzed
by night’s languor, or make a sound,
some gesture of hope, when all seems
obscured in the cloudy terminals of
darkness. What carrot, honey, flower
can lead the donkey, the poor ass,
to morning’s duties? Still stained with
birthmarks I face the mirror and the
rubble of my face reminds me of an
abandoned movie set, the façade crumbling.