Your scar captivates me, the soft bridge on your flexing, fleshy, whipped cream arm, the scar from falling that interminable distance from the apple tree bough’s own break to the ground. I know that much. What captivated you there? Dragged you like a bonded prisoner into heights unknown. Made you taste danger like sharp, unripened blackberries.
There were epics in which I never uncovered my face,
though I saved you
from the cannibals desirous
of your scalp,
from the Lorelai,
from the mirages in the desert that sung your true name.
I explained to the assembled crowd of family that we could call him Tag…for now. He was a very sweet, almost plasticine baby that glowed ever so slightly like you could only see him through a gauzy, soft focus lens. A baby Jesus-y looking baby. I showed him to my aunt, and her delight with me and this squirmy little thing all swaddled up in dish towels still gives me the shivers half a day later. I showed it to my grandfather and he was just as happy. Everyone seemed fine with the fact that I would turn up with a kid. Everyone seemed beyond fine…delighted.