Wednesday, February 4, 2015

I Arrive at the Bathroom Sink with My Adolescent Son

I could not have sculpted such an image 
with my hands

but my womb
she has molded your reflection as clay

standing beside me, before the water
bic in your hand

bic in my hand
and I show you how to lather the down 

of your man’s face.
I take the first swath 

remembering the razor of your birth, 
the waves of creation

I rode, speaking your name, 
breathing life into your lungs 

as I lay upon the great feathered back 
of a seabird violently come to shore.

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