Day 4

 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.