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Twentieth Century Children

We were born in the light
of the war of the Gargantuas.
We were born into the picture
as others might be born into the world,
with the bloom of a giant ape foot
over Tokyo, with the blink of
the Lizard Men in New York. Not God,
but the God-hairs brushing close—and the fire
up first like a fat mutant
gold cicada
which had slept in the earth
on the secret installations.
We were bathed
in the glow of the beast
from 20,000 fathoms, the arctic
flash of calving ice,
our bright fur groomed
under a mother's tongue that clicked
like starlodes. We
were created in the image
of the image of the glazed
stare of God, its half-lives,
its dream-kitchens of gold-
flecked tile, its backyard
bottle trees and common wrens, its
television, television
glitter on our faces, other
on our faces, other
falling on our beds, utter
dying we were the picture of,
an eye for an eye,
an eye for a mouth.

Beckian Fritz Goldberg

Reliquary Fever: New and Selected Poems
New Issues Poetry & Prose

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