when you crowned
in the canal
i watched
the
violence to
your mother's
pink and
pliant flesh
and witnessed blood
and the pale
effusive waters
i gave love
to your mother
lying on her back
held her hand
and wiped her brow
and watched her shake
but i was not
one of those
fathers who wept
i saw majesty
in your birth;
an alien grandeur
the expulsion
of your flesh from
her flesh
made my soul
yaw and pitch;
tumble and vibrate
the intellect
penetrated the
physical
when you with your head
slid out of her
greased to the heels
i elated quietly
at the coming
of you
my mind and
my heart
together seized
a breathless
moment at your
first breathtaking
but i was not
one of the
fathers who wept
i used to wonder
in the first years
where i became broken
to not emote
to not exerience the
swell and release
that i hear
so many other
fathers have
did i not
witness a miracle
as big?
did i not love
you as much as they
did theirs?
do i not
have the same
heart and soul?
i've cried since
for you
that's for sure
at the moment
i learned you'd
been nearly killed
at the moment
i learned i
could not stop your crying
at the moment
i felt you thought
i didn't care
at the moment
you learned
i was fallible
at the moment
i was sure
you'd be taken
so forth
and so on
i weep now
a father
who felt
something
close to seeing
the beginning of
time
when you
were born
and blood covered
but did not
weep at
it for fear
i would miss
the moment of
you becoming you
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