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Our forerunner
was discovered in
an African savanna,
but recently
I looked down, peered within
and found the tiny skeleton
in my lonely wicker basket.

But I haven't told anyone yet--
consider my circumstance:
me, a man--hailing at some distant time
from the Caucasus mountains--me, a white man
a small black
in my belly--?

Yes, I am pregnant
but the maternal shock brings up
the best protective instincts--
Iím determined to return
that fragile fetus
to life.

As I soothe her in my sling,
I can now identify with all
the other mothers
that lactate in the soul.

I can feel my milk
slowly expanding--
I can not stop this spill--
I can not stop without drying--
I can not stop this spill
from spreading its tentacles
--albeit, tentatively--
beyond the borders of my domain--
desirous of touch, yet
still afraid:
            my feelers have encountered
            blunt objects before
            and been

But as I continue
this fledgling spreading
I believe Lucy will lose the grayness
around her lips
and the snail color beneath
her fingernails
will bleed back to pink.

Then I can open
this box without fear
of destroying her

so we can finally
our dance
in this fertile desert.

As the moon
reflects the sun...

our bright play
will sing
a night song.

© 2008 Michael R. Patton      go back

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