Water Table

My earliest wish was not to exist,
to burst in the backyard
without violence,
no blood, no fleshy bits,
mute button pressed
alone behind the rectory
where no one would see me.

This wasn’t a plea to be found
or mourned for, but to be unborn
into the atmosphere. To hang
in the humid air, as ponds vent upward
from the overheated earth,
rise until they freeze
and crystallize, then drop
into the aquifer.

More Poems by Eliza Griswold