Beholding the baby, you could not see yourself
in him. He had his mother's flesh and form, but none
of you: a hybrid of your wife plus something else,
something indecipherable that struck you dumb.
And as he grew, his face grew more foreign to you:
inexplicable expressions, pure smiles, pure frowns,
eyes imbibing all things, as if visiting new
planets in each poor corner of his run-down town.
And as he grew, his faith grew more native in you:
you found comfort in his
otherness, in this cross
between your woman and her lover—now in view
as your love too—and in his freedom from your flaws.
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