To a father not yet made
A piece of you exists. It cannot
be pinned down, cannot swim,
cannot climb. It has no limb
nor eye nor tooth.
We will meet in a laboratory,
in the hollow space of a needle, after
our bodies have gone. We will make
a life outside ourselves.
She will be returned
to me, a clump of cells, carried
and birthed and placed into your arms.
You will draw her maps, these
pieces of you and me. You will teach
her eyes to search, her limbs to climb.
But not yet.