On hearing a baby cry
I lost myself on myself
60 years ago, the horror
I was born knowing,
Knowing existence is brutal,
Thoughts chaotic; hate and
Desperation, all I knew.
Somehow I got Memory,
And I knew this wasn’t right.
I would stand out in the mallows
And cow pastures, arms and eyes
Opened wide, crying, praying:
“God, why am I here?
Why did You put me here?
This is the wrong house.
I don’t know these people.
I don’t belong here.
They don’t want me.
Who am I?”
Then I’d shudder and walk
Back to the house hoping
No one, except God, heard me.

This article appears in December 9 2019.

Bill Simmons writes and lives in Carroll, Iowa, with his wife, Chris. He conducts the poetry group in Carroll and started a writers’ group with Des Moines Area Community College instructors in Boone, Iowa.