I generally cringe
when I hear glassy eyed, new age types
talking about transmigration of the soul 
as though it were an absolute fact, like gravity.

But there’s something to this idea
of the “Old Soul.”

Because there’s an old woman
in here.A real old crone.Nasty as fuck.
She’s been around, ya know?
Been through some shit.
Jumped from one skin sack
to another, for who knows how long.

She knows all the tricks.
The mercenary ways
of brain and heart.
She’s heard every bullshit excuse,
and alternately cackles
or groans at most
of what people say and do.

She sits on the front porch
of my house human,
slowly rocking in her chair,
spittoon on one side,
shotgun on the other.
Loaded and cocked.

I can picture her standing 
before a tribunal of the powers that be,
before being sent back here
from the underworld.

I see a half-circle of black hooded men,
their faces lost in shadow,
as she practically begs
“Please guys, not another body...”

But they laugh,
and off she goes,
flipping the bird on the fly,
and her “fuck you” translates
into my first ever scream,
as I am yanked out
into the cold.

The unsuspecting parents 
wind up with a baby 
who looks at grownups like idiots 
when they babble at him
or play peekaboo.

People say he seems pissed off.
Resentful. (Well, no shit!)
He doesn’t smile much,
or pose for photos,
or play well with other children.

And doesn’t cry
when the goldfish,
or the dog,
or people, 
die.

He knows better.
Or she does.