He was. From the moment he could hear, the air'd sang songs in his ear, From the moment he could taste, the tang of fresh honeydew spread on his tongue every new dawn. Every motherly caress came loaded with the sting of silver and sleep embraced him with the echoes of swan sonnets from beasts he'd never-not seen.  He knew the fierce, wild dance of freedom that vibrated out his bones. Flesh, was not nearly as free. Odd. Was he not... always, flesh? ________________________________________ Something was always off about her son. He cried too little. His eyes were too bright. He moved a bit too fast. But he was a good kid. Never gave her too much trouble. A right bundle of joy when he was ready. "Can I eat dad?" A little odd, to be sure.