A PRE-BIRTH MEMORY

Before my traumatic exit into the world –

must have been the eighth or ninth month –

my spirit was summoned

for a pep-talk with God.

All the others were there – my contemporaries.

We were a silent foetal conclave

in one of the heavenly lecture halls.

I remember our cords arching down from us –

so much longer than I’d thought –

and the podium beneath us where God sat

holding the umbilical ends

as if we were His bouquet of balloons.

You may wonder how we understood

what He said. I can’t explain:

we just did. Nor do I remember

the language of His talk, though I’m sure

it wasn’t English. But I recall the main thrust.

‘Don’t think you’re going to have a holiday.

Where you’re going it’s tough, understand Me? –

vale-of-tears-wringing tough.

You’re embarked on a life of losing things –

crayons and teddy bears and friends.

If you don’t think you’re up to it, this

might be a good way out. ’

And He tugged playfully at our cords.

And when He put on His black cap,

we didn’t know what to think.

‘But there’s worse, ’ He went on,

‘I condemn all foetuses,

after a longer or shorter term, to death. ’

We heard a pin drop.

I woke up in Mum.