it’s like all those summers
when you worked as a laborer for the masonry
company. your job the boss man said
between puffs of his cigarette, his beer belly pushing
you out of the shade, is to make sure the brick layers
never have to stop laying. bricks, mortar, water,
trowels,
scaffolding all needed to be within reach of their
cracked hands. it’s the same
now, her bloated and scarred belly keeping her in bed, a
ball
of light gnawing on her cracked nipples. medicine,
sweets,
creams, towels, pads, pumps all ready and waiting
so that she doesn’t have to stop lying, healing,
pouring herself out. nobody’s
paying you to stand around and watch. maybe it’s
good
you don’t have time to think about the future. no more
impulsive romps around the globe. no more Saturday nights
spilling wine into your poetry journal. you’ll fight
the urge to use your first Father’s Day hardware store
gift card to buy a nail gun to Phineas Gage yourself
into drooling through some nine-to-five future.
it’s for her. it’s for him.
even though there’s no union for new dads
that guarantees lunch breaks and fair wages,
I’d take this job over any other.
***
(Guayaquil, Ecuador -- May, 2022)
I wrote this poem when the wee baby Ryan was just 4 days old. It expresses a mix of emotions, from the duty to the sacrifice to the joy of being a parent. It was strange how those first days reminded me on being a laborer (considering it was my wife who went through labor in this case). This poem is very honest, but just a bit too weird, I feel, to use for more official publications. Please just don't ever buy me any Home Depot gift cards.