A boy dreams he is pregnant. He does this—
dreams this—in a room where curtains keep out light.
His skin sweat-slick, he doesn’t sleep well, the boy.
He dreams: not of birth-pangs which he can’t imagine
but of the child’s body-weight and warmth, its smell.
He loves the baby that he cannot hold onto. He coos
to it. But it is out of focus, as if viewed through a kinescope.
Awake, the boy rises. All day his arms curl around
themselves. His mother thinks: stomach ache. She gives
him coke, rubs his hair, feels his forehead. But the boy
wants sleep. He wants to find the child he has grown,
to feel its hand around his finger, hear its teething cry.
He wants to surround its indistinctness with himself.
In bed, the heat and dark, the fan spins almost fast enough
to turn the room into another world. But not the world he wants.