Outcomes ...

(Theme: Abundance & Excess. Written while sitting next to my nephew, in an old beach house in Bawley Point, Australia) - 15 November 2023

They made a child.

And it made sense to me:

The way he kisses even her

cheek, publicly—

The oil from her    pores

Saps down her neck   and

Slaps his face with a vapor

That makes his

Tongue, eyes, thighs,

ears, pits and back

                         salivate;

The way she looked at him, 

even.          in frustrated fits, with

               A monk's steady adoration;

       A lioness’s ball-nipping hunger

“Lord, give me more of your gift”

I imagine them,

Just one private corner-turn

                  Out of this crowd,

                          Eating each others’ faces,

                                          Suffocating out loud;

Digging and digging

                          “Take my skin off! Where are you?”

                                                     Deeper and deeper,

                       Like fungus under wet soil—through!

And how does that not make a child?

                           Knock the universe, compelling

                                   sweat and flesh and cum

                        Into a little something extra?

With its own mouth and eyes and bum,

And pure love,

And screaming cries,

And lost overwhelm,

And gaping-face

tingle-gasping

awe.

This child was no surprise to me,

From the parents I saw.

***

They also made a child.

And I was confused at how

the universe found                         any bounty or fullness

Inside of that                       passive row—

Peace with her                 was                                         a pastry crust.

Glazed with sweet,      but—             any pressure, it’s dust.

And what he sees in that,   I don’t know—

he’s a fan of                                                                  children’s cereal,

perhaps              she                               reminds him

of that last soggy

sweet sip,                  stubbornly sunk

in the bowl.

And yet,     she touches his leg,               and he stays—

Even chuckles to himself            through his beard,      peppered gray.

And they eat    desserts    together,

And   (though I itch being near it)    they’re content:

He shrugs off her moods          as “silly”

and smiles as she lights up

with a coffee

and a mint.

And          I cannot deny      their child,

Who looks in                 my eyes

and does not        look away,

Who studies rug textures            and laughs at      god-knows,

who flinches            at my

stubble                          but pets his

palm               there

anyway.

As she asks                “When did we feed him last?”

“Love, I don’t know,”     and on he reads.

Little fists     and a head     climbing onto his belly.

She scoops him up,       and he laughs, Complete:

                                        With pure love,

                          And screaming cries,

               And lost overwhelm,

And platter-eyed awe.

This child seemed like a miracle to me,

For the parents I saw.