FOR MY UNBORN CHILD:
AN IN-PROGRESS FAIRY TALE


When your mother called me in
To the bathroom that morning
I assumed it was to plunge the toilet,
To, you know, hear her horoscope
Or dispatch a flying
Cockroach or something.
In her shock, she'd thrown the home
Pregnancy test kit's
Wand to the floor;
I retrieved it & to restore
Its magic
Placed it front & center
On her mantelpiece altar
& lit a quiet candle.

The Red Sox breaking their hex
& winning the World Series; the ex-
Lover, who still bore
A serious torch, threatening to torch
Your mother's used bookstore;
The two of us, your still oblivious
Parents, throwing oranges into the river
The better to honor the lunar eclipse
(& later: a lustrous saliva umbilicus
connecting our lower lips!);
Your lone aunt
Swallowing that near-fatal
Bottle of pills; all the electoral
Turmoil here & in Ukraine;
& then, too, the local hurricane
Scare to which we
Took a decidedly
Golden Bough approach:
Figuring the answer to too much
Water was: yet more water
We had us, along with Thaddeus,
A hurricane party
Right on the levee...
                                    Precious
Child: what hardcore
Baraka you've been absorbing
Since even before
Your Lower Ninth Ward conception.

Ivan proved to be
A non-event, nothing
In comparison to hurricane me
For, sad to say:
Neither your mother's amulet of amethyst
Teardrops that truly tore
Me up inside
Nor my 35th birthday,
Not even the bathroom annunciation
Got me sober right away;
& sadder still: your mother,
Still in her first trimester,
Wasn't wrong to dump me.

Now, however belatedly,
I'm trying to trust in the old
Maxim that putrefaction
Must precede the realization
Of spiritual gold,
That there's hardly a fairy tale
Worthy of the name that doesn't entail
Its fair share of toil & heartbreak.

But whatever happens, take
This to heart: I had hoped to grow old--
From Niagara all the way to Viagra, so to speak--
With your mother
In short: I loved her
& you, child, were no mistake.