I want to go back
to the day you were born.
Slip in through the side
door, tap the delivering doctor
on the shoulder,
exchange a meaningful look before
he pulls you all
the way out, before we can see
the clumps of your mother's insides
still clinging to your skin, before
you have a chance to let forth
your first cry. Before you've learned
how to take up space. How to
throw your weight around, how to hurt
people.            And watch.
I do not want to warn the others. I do not
want to stop you before you start.
Just to see you as they did
in that room: Joy's bundle. Life's miracle.
The promise of happy memories to make.
And then let it
all happen, let it all unfold again
exactly as it has before.