The Word Precedes Me

I spoke my last word
Before time began
But still I wait to hear it.
It’s nothing
To get paranoid about—
Wondering if the word, heard,
Would take me back
Before the beginning,
When the brittle word was all I was,
And maybe my mind would come,
Maybe it would not.
I worry that if I hear the word wrong
My face will come out different,
My spiritual DNA will twist
With someone else’s memories & fears—
But, I tell myself,
It is worry alone
That makes the word brittle.
As long as I am not listening,
I will hear it fine.