ISSUE: Autumn 1987
Tadpole, it’s not time yet to nag you
about college (though I have some thoughts
on that!), baseball (ditto), or abstract
principles. Enjoy your delicious,
soupy womb-warmth, do some rolls and saults
(it’ll be too crowded soon), delight in your early
dreams—which no one will attempt to analyze.
For now: May your toes blossom, your fingers
lengthen, your sexual organs grow (too soon
to tell which yet) sensitive, your teeth
form their buds in their forming jawbone, your already
booming heart expand (literally
now, metaphorically later); o your spine,
eyebrows, nape, knees, fibulae,
lungs, lips . . . But your soul,
dear child, I don’t see it here, when
does that come in, whence? Perhaps God,
and your mother, and even me—we’ll all contribute
and you’ll learn yourself to coax it
from wherever: your soul, which holds your bones
together and lets you live
on earth. —Fingerling, sidecar, nubbin,
I’m waiting, it’s me, Dad,
I’m out here. You already know
where Mom is, I’ll see you more directly
upon arrival. You’ll recognize
me—I’ll be the tall-seeming, delighted
blond guy, and I’ll have
your nose.
