I.
Mother bore me in a freefall
in a firmament without a sun,
suckled and weaned me somehow,
and I flew, arms outstretched,
through the unrelieved inky-blue,
no ground to stand on.
Much later
I looked down again,
discovered lights,
flew down to take a look.
There were cities,
there were homes,
but none of them
would have me.
II.
You came,
and a solid world
rose up to meet my feet.
You took me
to one of those lighted houses,
but I found the light
was not my light.
I tried to do
what people do
in homes,
but kept going
to the window
with an impulse
to stretch out my arms.
Finding my memories
of the night ocean
too, too, lonely
I resisted
but all I could do
was wait and pray
and walk out the door
every morning,
the way people do.
Lately, though,
some mystery's
been at work.
I find myself coming
back to you at night
like a man
with a real address.
Max Reif
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/autobiography-in-two-acts/
