As suggested by Amanda. Sort of.

This is an "opposites poem" based on Mark Strand's My Death.

Your Birth

Joy, of course, and a mess on the floor.
Strangers spinning round the bedside,
chlorine pools diminishing.
The light stands still in bowls outside.

This might be an island off the coast of
Mainstreet. In my dream, you came back
from your boat trip to announce
your birth. You sang while walking
backwards off the cliff and looked
straight into my face. The amoebas
and rocks rejoiced.

You didn’t mention anything about
the future, how you will sit
in that coat on the sand,
pointing your hand at the rabbits and
fall immediately into a fever. After
you will be surrounded by family.

Or how you will jump rope
into a wheel of shadows
and be carried over the snow of
the mountains by a flock
of the president’s sparrows.

Now you rise from the porch of your
father’s undoing while the clouds
dissipate. The party-goers pass
on either side, shake their shoulders
as if to dance or make peace.

You will do both, handful of foot and tooth,
precious bowl.
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A bit sappy, maybe?