Truck fall down my toddler says
dropping a truck to the floor
lips curling into a smile
as his small body swells with delight.
Surprised as gravity asserts itself
for the sixth time in as many minutes.
This, his first and only narrative–
gargantuan placeholder for the orbit
where conversation, dreams, invention
will one–day lie upends me.
I hover over him like an anthropologist
excavating the bones of first light–
the joy, the sheer delight, the unrelenting assertion
and repetition of a first prosaic thought,
truck fall down.
To watch the evolution of form—
the thing in itself—filling his small body,
standing there ribald and naked
between the two of us.
The voice sonorous, even other worldly
pressing out from the deep wordless silence
of infancy. The guttoral, underdeveloped yelps
and yawps of primordial noise, away from
the propriety of consonants, the refinement
of properly shaped syllables.
Like god talking to us in stutters and signs.
The unblinking eye of a mother whale
silent beneath the bow of a ship,
her calf surfacing nearby, watching us
on break from the deep.
And inside me another one swims
already, twitching his reptilian tail
in the laboratory I have become.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 4.
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