The Pain of Creation

Emmett Ceglia

My baptism had no business with fire
It was my creation that was in a holocaust
The womb from which I was expelled
Rooted me in the unholy churning of the center of the earth
In conflagration flame, I was compressed
My body was so tight
My heartbeat made the first cracks in my skin
After my ejection, I was cast into the coldest brine
Sitting at its pitch black silty bottom
As the emptiness passed without purpose
I began to move with the current
I was getting closer to the light but shrinking all the while
Finally washed up, I settled among the millions of others
All cast off without a tear
And like myself, left to wander, always getting smaller
Deteriorating until our pitted shells and scars became our new skin
Now I sit in his hands
Under cancelled sky
Telling him the story of what it’s like to begin