To Give a Name (An Ode to my Unborn Son)
It’s 3 a.m. and I hear my unborn child cry
on the shrink wrapped baby monitor
looming over a cup and a tea bag sucked dry.
A half opened book lays on its spine,
A book on SIDS too frightening for such an hour
A nightmare too real for my mind.
The book in my hands; a book on baby names
Is opened to “D”, who knows what for,
Because one decision still remains;
Will he be strong, or smart, or kind
With mathematics or philosophy
Written as poetic line,
Running through his heart, or in his veins
in his eyes or in his mind
and will his name be a highlight, or a stain?
Will it be apt or prophetic
will it define him before he’s born,
Both meaningful and aesthetic?
When he says it will their pride,
Or shame in his eye
when he asks a girl to be his bride,
To take his name, to take our name?
Will he be chastised
For its lack of fame?
On my death bed will he say:
“Its all your fault,
My life turned out this way”?
More importantly will he be right?
Is his fate in my weak hands,
Cradling his name tight,
At such late hours of the night.
