You are a beautiful black curve in my belly,
with a heart the size of a fine needle tip.
When will you be flavoured with your soul?
Or is it already rooted and lying with you, sleepily
absorbing nutrients from my body?
Your Father is outside, chewing on his knuckles,
getting used to the strong aftertaste of the news
that my belly possesses such precious treasure.
I lick my aluminium tasting tears,
contemplate the jigsaw of your gender,
and wonder, if one day, you will possess the desire
to hike across the roof of a dormant volcano.
Your father comes back, closing the door
as quietly as if you were already here,
flushed and hungry, with wet, black hair.
‘I’m the father’ he says in an excited, shaky whisper
to the nurse who first handed us the photo.
He is proud, your father. I can see it in the way
he holds himself. He is ready to protect our skin
and flesh castle, and the wealth that grows there.