I don’t mean to look down

I don’t mean to look down it’s my nature i don’t like it either 

By Robin Kathaas

My expertise: little accidental moves 

from theoretical to cannot-be-

undone. I was only seven when I spoke 

of reincarnation. Guessed a housecat first, 

a wombat second. The doctors were often wrong, 

but got this right: I was way behind. 

It snuck up on me without my seeing 

that I was already new. My humanity had long gone,

subtly and apologetically. Pulled away from me with the vlies, my coat 

hung upside down from my nose, dangling and dancing

in front of my eyes like a premonition

of awkward emo phases and hiding dens. 

It’s not personal if I circle around it. 

Awkwardness lingers. Don’t feel bad, it turns out 

it is my birth: right & duty. 

I was born half-child, half-chandelier.

Guess what survived. The wrong light 

heats me up without touching me.

Others have tried to polish me, but

posterity precedes kindness. A privilege 

to see me burn, a chore to reach

out and touch me. I hope to be taken down

a peg, hope to be given an attic room

and a blanket of my own. My next life

will be luckier: dim and puerile. Finally,

somebody else will light the way.