Poetry: Gregory Pardlo Author of Digest

Written by Himself

by Gregory Pardlo

I was born in minutes in a roadside kitchen a skillet

whispering my name. I was born to rainwater and lye;

I was born across the river where I

was borrowed with clothespins, a harrow tooth, broadsides sewn in my shoes. I returned, though it please you, through no fault of my own, pockets filled with coffee grounds and eggshells.

I was born still and superstitious; I bore an unexpected burden. I gave birth, I gave blessing, I gave rise to suspicion.

I was born abandoned outdoors in the heat-shaped air, air drifting like spirits and old windows.

I was born a fraction and a cipher and a ledger entry;

I was an index of first lines when I was born.

I was born waist-deep stubborn in the water crying

ain’t I a woman and a brother I was born to this hall of mirrors, this horror story I was

born with a prologue of references, pursued

by mosquitoes and thieves, I was born passing

off the problem of the twentieth century: I was born. I read minds before I could read fishes and loaves;

I walked a piece of the way alone before I was born.

“Written By Himself” from Digest (c) 2014 by Gregory Pardlo. Appears with the permission of Four Way Books. All rights reserved.

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