Crib.

Wait, so: no one knows what’s going on here?
Where we come from? Where we’re going when we die?
Everyone’s pretending not to be confused?

We march around in clothes, doing research,
having families, voting. Peering up our noses in the mirror.
It’s like we’ve forgotten we don’t know.

And I’m familiar with the clever answers
(it’s something you discover, over again,
or, maybe we are that uncertainty).
Mere distractions: finger-waggling.

The first thing I remember is being three years old
in a crib at grandmom’s house. It’s morning.
I’m alone in the room, I’ve woken from a nap,
and I call for someone to come get me.
No one hears, though. No one’s heard yet.