Poem of fear for my unborn child
When I think about pushing your pram by the pond,
all the dogs off their leads, nothing between us and
the dark, weedy water, I drown you. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I cannot save your soft head from the terrier
whose jaws lock, that I wasn’t looking the second
you disappeared leaving me hot and turning round
for the man or any kind of words. And as you’ve grown
strong enough for kites and canoes or walks to shops
again, I’m sorry: I am such a dreadful future father;
I’m on the curb, crying, I’m a wreck with your scarf.
All this fear, like a fizz building in a bad, grey egg,
is waiting for you. All this greenstick, nodular love,
so tense, perversely stored like a bubble in my lungs,
will be here, a huge trembling hand, when you arrive.