Antecedence
by Elizabeth J. Gilbert

Let us proceed upon the fact
that cause follows effect, and time,
old bonedog with his finger curled round yours,
is dancing his tarantella backwards.
Now you clasp your hands to your ears,
and then the windowpanes will shudder with a roar of thunder.
And you spin the taste of fruit inside your mouth,
after which you peel an orange. You're hungry.
As the tide heaves, pulling the moon to its blue breast,
you sigh like a dove, just before remembering
the flushed cheekbones of the first man you kissed, or will kiss, if it matters-
how just before your mouths touched, your thighs and throat
exploded with poppies. Afterwards you quivered in hesitation, and the anticipation
of memory.
Because of you, someday your parents will make love.
Intoxicated and sticky, you pour a glass of wine. You burn yourself,
and light a match.
Most terrifying is this sensation of escalating clarity
as every experience draws ever closer to you, in prophecies
sharpening with each hour, before occurring in a rush, and disappearing.
You're so afraid of the day when you'll be born. What then?

Elizabeth J. Gilbert is a student at The Evergreen State College