...of all your children
only those who were born.
I have so many of them I sometimes lose track,
several hundred last time I counted
but thas was years ago.
I remember one was made of marble
and another looked like a goose
some days and on other days a white flower.
Many of them appeared only in dreams
or while I was writing a poem
with freezing fingers in the house of a miser.
Others were more like me,
looking out the window in a worn shirt
then later staring into the dark.
None of them ever made the lacrosse team,
but they all made me as proud
as I was on the day they failed to be born.
There is no telling-
maybe tonight or later in the week
another one of my children will not be born.
I see this one as a baby
lying naked below a ceiling pasted with stars
but only for a little while,
then I see him as a monk in a gray robe
walking back and forth
in the gravel yard of a imaginary monastery,
his head bowed, wondering where I am.