You, who took me for a ride on a reverie.
Oh the stork, I wish for, flying
Through a mucus plug and an opening,
To deliver a bundle, who will be
A joy, that is bound to be unheralded.
Nativity, is just a little Bethlehem,
In a nursing home, waiting impatiently
For a moment that will define
The next half of my life. To witness those fingers
That wrap around anything hold-worthy.
I’m father material I say to myself, how
I will put safety locks in the car,
Safety wheels on a push bike, safety glances
Every vigilant minute, and that feeling
That fate can throw anything at you,
Eating me alive. I will look at you
Suckling a breast, when I will realize
That I’m just the wrong half, a man
Who will never hold a milk bottle inside his breasts.
A man whose pectoralis major,
Can only hold a small head against him.
As I look at my son, to realize, why Oedipus killed Laius.
It was just to claim once again, what he dearly missed,
The homely uterus, the safety of the amniotic ocean,
The taste of milk. What is a biological father,
But a replica of a fall-guy gender, scapegoat of a being
Whose empty breasts, makes him into
A glorified purse, whose interior,
Fills up with tails of zeros, to make him,
Just as affluent as a chest filled with milk.