I want a seed to grow me fat to push my belly into the world before me, like a pram into traffic making me big from above, like a hat I stink up my blankets, roiling, mute any man a father who pauses to roost – sprinter, guest star, Gastarbeiter dictator rapidly deposed. I am young, almost: they throng my shore fatherhood is a range of shoulders I climb to scan the horizon for my home: gathering, polishing my sharp stones. He will pass; I will flush him out. In the ribald empire of my waist I will reconstitute bean from sprout motherhood is a crown in a tree my landscape will reorient to portrait in childbirth, nature’s aristocracy Cathoel Jorss
