Bastard Baby

For you, my sister, who has so many hopes made human.

There’s an icy fog this morning
and I’m listening to the frosty whispers,
sussurating breath against the brittle reeds,
and working through a simple problem:
if we have nothing, and you can’t, and she can,
what more is there to say?
And the same sum, simplified:
two minus n (bracketed for years)
plus another one
equals two (without the brackets)
divided by the one who now has n.
Where n is my beloved, longed-for,
hope-made-human, bastard baby.
So sing, you brittle reeds:
I have another mouth to feed.



Thank you for the first thought.