I was born looking up into the face of my father.
And while I don’t remember it at all,
I can tell you for certain why I just couldn’t
Come into this world blinded by
Delivery room tables and
Doctor’s hands;
I had to see it before I could decide
If I would stay here.

I was born looking at surgery-strength lighting.
I know I’ve seen it since then
But that’s not as exciting, is it?
I didn’t see blood first, I saw something
Sun-like and brilliant;
I saw what some people say I should see
When I die.

I was born seeing faces in the first seconds of my life.
I don’t recall this, but I know I must
Have seen their mouths moving.
I had only just taken a first breath
And already I could see how to speak;
Nine months old and I was already watching
So that in fifteen years I would have
Practically 5475 days of watching to write about.

I was born observing my future.
Struggling into existence from my mother’s womb
And then watching what I was to become in just
A matter of years and
I can’t say if I knew it then, but I must have felt it;
Instinctually I knew that this was my mother
This was my father
These were hands, fingers, voices, heartbeats
And not just more embryonic fluid
And they were going to be mine.

I was born looking for something,
Which I guess eighty-eight percent of babies aren’t.
I don’t know what it was, what it is, but I know
I haven’t quite found it yet;
I know because my dialogue isn’t quite right and
My adjectives sometimes don’t fit,
But I’m working on it.
I’ve just got to push when I
Get to contractions, I suppose.

True story; posterior babies are just more awesome.

Falcon