Gestation (Poetry)

I worried at the craft
like reproduction might be
a fully conscious thing —
some mindful manufacturing —
a process strong will could somehow bind
and learn to creatively control

those darkest of materials — organic substances
forged in a situation once-imagined safe.
Fate inked a blueprint with no use-by date —
an unscheduled, undefined
prototype with sorrow’s unlimited potential
bursting from its narrow nameless spine.

Intent, I wove the magic of perfection
into nine month’s breathless tension
as though my body had a pattern —
a step by step instruction
that should have guaranteed
a flawless offspring.

Singular — the precious one and only
first edition imprinted flesh
of my flesh — production sudden
with a curious lack of editing — I found
I couldn’t begin to tamper with
what passion had begun.