The Way Out (Poetry)

They say we can go back to
the moment of our own birth —
that the memory is stored somewhere
in the brain’s long expanding filing cabinet —
those subconscious archives rarely — if ever
consulted — though the permanence of ink
is more reliable than we might think.
The record is there — scrawled
in infant shorthand —
the shrill language of alarm —
emotion’s scribblings of duress

with no benefit of fire drill —
no instruction or rehearsal —
while mother’s got a handbook
baby has no map — no light — no clue
nothing but blind instinct —
the urge to push on through
the hot wet pulsing darkness.

Sometimes years later — the odd
regressive dream may signpost back
to the entrance to that suffocating world
where a tunnel yawns familiar — mouths
obscene reminders — gross with overtones
of stress and echoed panic twitching
every nerve — that overwhelming — frantic —
squirming need to
                                escape.