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Winter 2001.

Untitled Ink

by Marcus K. Anderson

you... yet unborn
i... ink flowing from
the pen of the supreme being
and being that my life
is a poem being written
with no plotted date of completion on horizon
i have felt closer to you as of late

everyday i take the shape of another stanza scrawled
and i hover in a realm of spirits awaiting birth
only to find you ...lacking physical form
not yet planted ...and yet still blossoming
you.. who have yet to develop skin
but are still soaked in precious melanin
you are my seed and my twin and i
often labor over paper
contractions closing
remaining painless
i push you into world
the ink is the birth blood
streaked across loose leaf

you... my beautiful black babies unborn
i... author you until you take physical form
writing you is painless labor
of love waiting between papers lines
for the love of a lifetime

and when you move into this world
from word to flesh
i will diaper you powder you
shower you with adoration
rock you to sleep
but also teach you that sleep can be
the cousin of death
(in the mental sense)
i will hold you proudly in front of atheists as evidence
that heaven exists

i'll give you the world when word becomes flesh
but for now i labor over paper
the ink is the birth blood
and anyone who reads you
can clearly see that you are love

MARCUS ANDERSON's poetry has no plotted date of completion on horizon.