Beverly A. Jackson

Never was I an infant, but
a natural architect from birth,
With a t-square of chutzpah,
mortar of genetic obligation,
bricks of belief,
I built.

Cities of rooms convulse
my mind’s repose; a labyrinth
of connecting halls ajumble
with clutter, faces, sounds—
debris of flat eyes, hot breath
and memory in movie-clips collide.
Synapses crackle with
jazz riffs, laughter, poetry.
Adults abound, loping toward
enlightenment & retirement homes.

I did it with no blueprint.
Alone, with hammer, saw,
and a certificate of occupancy,
I did it for the hell of it,
still cognizant like Medea
or my mother’s lowered eye,
there is no nursery.

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