he has his

knuckles blocking out the sun

for the man is pregnant with a fatherhood

that suckles the honey dripped summer

where he wants to be

but not burdened with being

and the nights that swallow

crowing murder

when the mother is emptied

by him huffing a childhood

nursery rhyme he can’t exactly remember

but whose beats are banged

with fists clenched on her shoulders

railing for a drink

that i’ll imbibe later

a boy

carving her out again

with baby bumps

that are actually punches

*

baby

there’s only you

he says

with eyes wayward

to the life evolving

from the sea

with outer wear and hair

less covering than the last

*

wading back to water

though i don’t know

how to swim

i wax mindless philosophy

while still absorbing water:

i sink therefore i am

remembering that dead things

float best of all