Posed in our best waxy smiles
other people's babies on our laps
we stroked the impossibly soft skin of
fat legs and the little plastic cross
on his baptism socks.
Peacock proud parents looked on through lenses
their details lost to the tidal wave
of toys and baby gadgets.
The boy is done, oil imposed
peachy head soaked
by an old priest who grated words
‘the father, the son’ through a cancerous larynx
and gave us tactile symbols.
I heard my own story in the lectionary
saw our faces in the font.
I hope there’s another way to mix
our blood, the palette of eye colour,
to marry our faces in a creature
that would not take over our lives so completely.
I want you for myself.
Comments
raysawriter | April 29, 2008 - 20:21
Like the poem... very evocative. I got a bit confused by it to start with, but it makes sense on second read. There are some very nice phrases; I like 'peacock proud parents' and 'I hope there’s another way to mix our blood the palette of eye colour' Not so sure about the title though.
Look forward to the final version
Ray
tcook | April 30, 2008 - 15:14
I think this is wonderful - your best poem for a while. It's got all the 'thank god it's not mine' and the 'I wish it was mine' all mixed in beautifully. maybe it's because I've got grandchild number one with me for a few days - but I really related to this one.
sunshine | May 3, 2008 - 18:27
superb - the testing emotions made so clear and with some beautiful phrasing. Margot