I marked the date on the calendar, the day
we had relations. Remember how the
cornstalk peeked over the buckboard
and the subtropical storm left
beetles in its aftermath?
We were exuberant in mama’s trailer,
intoxicated by our youth,
when we masqueraded as grown-ups.
I took you in spoonfuls, encircled you in
my cot and easily expressed my pleasure.
The rays of sunlight revealed your smile
as you tried once more to punt
and I advised you where to touch
now we have another date, nine months
from that rain-drenched morning.
We’re having a baby boy.
I didn’t mean to trap you.
I know you want to travel
but I expect you to help
me with this child
and be with me
after he is born.
After all,
I didn’t make him
on my own.
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