Son of mine, little Borikén, butting Your bloodhead along a blind chute, child who breaks The saltwaters of your mother’s loneliness, Cyclone spawn, spume and fury, with fins sawing Your mother’s vulva, with eyes bulbing and mouth Gawping, with seismic thrashing you push out, Snag your mother’s cord. Your jaws snap And with a flash that blinds her to her pangs— And to me—you leap! into my hands, wriggling, Perilous as sargasso weeds. Is it I who dry your finlet ears, your fine Barbel hairs? Till now I’ve touched nothing As quivery as your skin, a current that drags Me far from shore, closer to my drowning.
