Self-Portrait at Birth

I screeched into the world like a pilot landing at Otis Air Force Base, 

according to my mother, plopping into the black hands of the only 

doctor on base willing to attend such silly events. I arrived early, 

days before my ETA, touching down on the far side of the Atlantic 

from the tiny town in Scotland, where during nocturnal explorations, 

I was enthusiastically thumped into existence on a honeymoon 

for the two virgins who became my astounded parents. My head 

was as long as a watermelon, and my mother was horrified 

until the doctor squeezed my skull into a shape vaguely resembling 

human, lop-siding my features into a face only a lover could love. 

Fortunately, none looked closely at my squalling, wrinkled features 

then, and few have done so since, so with my plain, unoriginal face—

a chimera captured by Kodak only once on film of black and white—

I stare blankly and baldly at a world witnessing my birth without 

applause, politely ignoring my every last leap into the air 

since I first found my feet and launched into blue, clicking heels, 

clapping hands, roughly, witlessly, relentlessly returning to Earth.