The Human Genre Project


Accident of Birth

Too many chromosomes a fault before birth,
the moment of conception.
A world stands still for man and woman.

You are born with an insatiable hunger.
We are born again with diminished hope.
No appetite to fulfil.

You are left to face each day, someone beside you.
Now at twenty two, for us, you’re just you.
We see who we think you are. Make no demands.

But as you look in the mirror do you see beyond glass
the boy (it’s hard to call you a man)
the boy, who you might have been?

Infatuated by Elvis you try another impersonation.
It’s so much easier being him than you.
To be someone other than a student with Down’s

your college report states. Too many questions
always I know. The answers blow somewhere
between your reflection and the clouds in the sky

overhead. The ones we point out
but you never directly look up to see.
Feet firmly fixed to the ground.

Wendy French