The Child We Can Never Have
We talk about the child
we can never have -
the invisible child, the ghost-boy,
the tiny Duke of no-place.
No name or religion, instead we play a game of colour:
what would it be ? Latte ? Mocca ? Teak ?
Black hair tightly curled - stroke it,
like a Resurrection Plant!
My nose and chin. Your sense
of direction. A linguist without doubt,
christening the garden flowers
Bunga, Hana, Blomst.
We walk arm-in-arm,watch him play beside the lake.
He feeds the ducks. He eats ice cream.
His green eyes sparkle. His perfect
teeth (yours) glisten.
At night we dream of a wedding
that will never be
observe the proceedings
in our invalid chairs
(because age may wither us
but never diminish our pride).
He greets us with a smile,
a butterscotch carnation fixed to his lapel,
kisses his parents firmly on
their cheeks. This dutiful son,
he will not be alone. There are
sisters and brothers - ours
but not ours - to help guide him on his way.
As tall as me you say, and moulded
by three cultures. He takes
his bride - his beautiful girl - into his arms