Welcome to another edition of poetry Monday. Given that my offspring is about to have another birthday, the following poem by him felt particularly appropriate.
This is the deal, I tell you:
You’re half me, half your mother, roughly.
We made you, from ourselves.
You look appropriately skeptical
but make no comment, since you can’t yet talk.
Sexual reproduction, if you’re wondering,
the details don’t matter for now, I go on.
What matters is, I have to warn you,
the whole thing is a bit random.
We couldn’t pick and choose,
you get a sort of tasting menu of us,
with the chef just slopping stuff together,
drunk on rum meant for the flambé.
You look worried now.
But hey, the basic ingredients are good —
we, ourselves, were made by our parents,
from themselves, in much the same way.
You look really worried now
suggesting I’ve underestimated your grasp
of grandparental visits.
Well, let’s not worry too much about the ingredients,
because it’s really how you bake the cake that matters,
and your mother and I are going to bake the hell out of you!
You don’t look reassured,
which is, I suppose, a good sign.