To my unborn

I’m not sure if this is a good time for us to talk
but I now see how easy it is for man to forget

he was a boy once. Now that the dead have refused
to be raised by my prayers, I’m dreaming about cribs levitating on foam.

No no, there’s no baby floating or ripe fruit dangling,
no dandelion waters for the nurturing pink of my intestines,

it’s the gaze of the dying man’s appetite
living in the lake of the kitchen sink – son, someday have a daughter, a son.

This: an elementary desire to evolve hairs into needles,
beating ribs into tiny clasping fists, a sear of life inside me into yours.

I’ve heard the word father passed around
like a tasteless cigar, one bruised index finger to another.

Mostly I’ve remained watching, stubbed soft by borderless winds
making ashtrays out of the verandah’s modest offering.

You probably feel I’m not cool enough and I agree. If I was,
we wouldn’t be talking right now. I’m merely the tongue of teleported bones. 

Today, I’m drowning in the predicament of heredity -
tousled head rafting on currents of descent. Today, I ask you to exist.

Haven’t you seen the atoning man – how on seeing a mirror
he sees himself and craves for another mirror to pass his image.

Satya Dash's poems have been published or are forthcoming in Passages North, Cosmonauts Avenue, The Florida Review, Pidgeonholes, Glass Poetry, Prelude amongst others. Apart from having a degree in electronics from BITS Pilani-Goa, he has been a cricket commentator too. His work has been twice nominated for the Orison Anthology. He spent his early years in Odisha, India and now lives in Bangalore. He tweets at: @satya043