Pásame el plato de mi hijo.
at a certain point, there
came someone else to serve.
the salt water wiped off,
the sex tucked up in
white. this moving thing, which
has quit your innards and
moves towards your breast.
this was the resolved
course of your life.
blond, blue. the desperate
sleeps, a little perfect head
tucked under your chin
on the sweaty crowded buses.
his name comes second
to son. the possessive: my,
mine. as soon as you discovered
everything would topple to
root the growth in
your shocked womb, to
water it with protective words.
to anchor the roots which sprang
ever deeper, though there were none
to begin it. just a man, no more.
it was the biggest event.
it happened to you, and you
were almost ready.
mabel lee 