Poem to my child, if ever you shall be by Ross Gay

Описание: The way the universe sat waiting to become, quietly, in the nether of space and time,
you too remain some cellular snuggle dangling between my legs, curled in the warm swim of my mostly quietest self.

If you come to be—And who knows?—
I wonder, little bubble of unbudded capillaries,
little one ever aswirl in my vascular galaxies,
what would you think of this world which turns itself steadily into an oblivion that hurts, and hurts bad?

Would you curse me my careless caressing you into this world or would you rise up and, mustering all your strength into that tiny throat which one day, no doubt, would grow big and strong, 
scream and scream and scream until you break the back of one injustice,
or at least get to your knees to kiss back to life
 some roadkill?

I have so many questions for you,
for you are closer to me than anyone has ever been,
tumbling, as you are, this second, through my heart’s every chamber,
your teeny mouth singing along with the half-broke workhorse’s steady boom and gasp.

And since we’re talking today I should tell you,
though I know you sneak a peek sometimes through your father’s eyes,
it’s a glorious day, and there are millions of leaves collecting against the curbs,
and they’re the most delicate shade of gold
we’ve ever seen and must favor the transparent
wings of the angels you’re swimming with, little angel.

 And as to your mother—well, I don’t know—
but my guess is that lilac bursts from her throat
 and she is both honeybee and wasp and some kind of moan to boot
and probably she dances in the morning—

but who knows? You’ll swim beneath that bridge if it comes.

For now let me tell you about the bush called honeysuckle that the sad call a weed,
and how you could push your little sun-licked face into the throngs and breathe and breathe.

 Sweetness would be your name,
and you would wonder why four of your teeth are so sharp, and the tiny mountain range of your knuckles so hard.

And you would throw back your head and open your mouth at the cows lowing their human songs in the field, and the pigs swimming in shit and clover, and everything on this earth, little dreamer,
little dreamer of the new world,
holy, every rain drop and sand grain and blade of grass worthy of gasp and joy and love,

tiny shaman, tiny blood thrust, tiny trillion cells trilling and trilling,

little dreamer, little hard hat, little heartbeat,


little best of me.

Music: Oh you pretty things - David Bowie
Photo: Rrezarta Isma, Prishtina