Inspired by “A Prayer for My Daughter” by W.B. Yeats
As I lie in these tousled sheets staring at the beat in a belly — my belly — the possibility of him creeps into my half-nap daydream.
Should I be blessed with a son, Make his hands sweaty and warm with a grace that might allow for music. Give him pointy, smooth elbows that can unfurl and reach the apples on our tree while I wait, below, holding the basket. Send him blonde, sprightly curls near the edges of his face so I may tuck them back in a clip.
For in May and June, when the light settles in, I would like to be sure of his portrait.
That way we can sit on the bench and pick at blackberries together, without fear of misunderstanding.
And when he grows larger than I, he will still think me impressive.