Etiology

As a child I stood in freezing waterthe temperature bluing my toes. NextI drank milk for twelve years& shouted, I am Rip Van Winkle,Jesus Christ, & Siddhartha.My phenotype is lily of the valley,a watery bourgeonal of the highersocioeconomic class. Listen,some say I’m poisonous. Tinybell, mortar & pestle—I’m alwayscrossing the same river twice.I found the cause & know not me.During high winds, the open windowcloses the door. I am cave-shaped,but lacking void, illuminatedby snow-lanterns, my lace-finerna ribbons are yourgrandmother’s favorite story,a recipe smuggled out of the oldcountry. Only cookbooks end well.Touch not the glove, the viruswhose red hand comforted my& thy check. I am a spore. I amnot one, but four, the knee that nightlyrests in the back of yours, touching,like a hand that forsook a sleeping child,like an infant uncurling womb to world.