Startle Reflex

every morning i awake
with a gasp
fling my arms wide
to grasp hold
of something--you,
the bedpost,
a branch in a tree
that i have been falling from
a thousand generations now
always falling
never reaching the ground

every evening
i tuck myself tight
into bed, pull the blankets up
under my chin
and wait for the dark
for the dream of the canopy
wait for the wind
to come whistling my name
always calling
for me in the night

every child
is born with this gift,
this curse, this reflex
to reach out when frightened
and catch hold
of anything
that might save them.
every child knows
the sharp intake of breath
in the air over water
a bird in a nest
over soft, muddy rivers
a memory of wings
a need to be held
close when the wind
shakes the branch.