Soft Spot

Your first breath was full
of your enemies' atoms.
You were intimate before you
became each others' nightmare.
You are never not "them."
You have the power of the unborn
because you are always just
one moment old.
From the soft spot on your crown
where your infancy never healed,
let glittering filaments umbilical
flow on waves of probability
conjoining your better angel
to the navel of a policeman,
the vein of an addict who sleeps
on a Memphis sidewalk,
the pituitary of the Chairman
of Goldman Sachs,
the Chicano broccoli picker's amygdala
from whose malathion-crusted palms
you receive your voluptuous salad.
Need I say more?
A holographic fiber of your
golden hypothalamus
connects you to the vagus nerve
of Donald Trump.
99% of you is beautiful.
Almost whole.
Why not claim the other 1
as your Self?