O Love this happened or it did not. In a room with green walls my son was born. The cord was torn too soon, so they cut off his head to save his heart. He lived for a long time. For a long time there was no breath or cry. When finally he spoke, he spoke the wide, whorled leaves of corn. He spoke the crickets in clusters beneath the sheaves, he sang the soil in. He sang the wind in the dune and hush of ebb tide. Some say he died. Some say he died. First Published in The Hudson Review.