May 7, 2014

To the stranger, my son

You are still little
more than a concept
to me, and I

am no good
at loving
abstract things - God, land, heritage - 
so, forgive me 

if this isn't so much
love, as the inability
to bear the thought
of you not being there.

You are a gray, grainy blur,
and a kick in the gut,

a hundred complaints,
a million possibilities,

the whole of my future,
and the sum of my past.

You are an alien,
a faithful companion,
a thief, and a squatter,
and mine.

I am unprepared,
unsure and unwilling,
and no good at loving
abstract things - 

But there - you stir
and push against me,
unabstracting yourself,
although we've never been introduced,
and I've never really seen your face.

Here, you stir
under my skin
and there, I forget
to think deep thoughts about
what I've never been good at.

8 months pregnant with E.

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