I am terrified of having a child. There, 

I said it. Is the fear gone yet? Has it grown

twinkle toes & danced offstage? You seem

so confident, so steady. I want to hold 

on to you as I rock to & fro. Don’t be alarmed

if I vomit over the side railing. Yesterday

I set up my new record player & cried

when a piece of it broke off. Of course, my tears

weren’t for the plastic. If I can’t assemble this shit,

how will I ever keep a human alive? I choked.

You wrapped me in your arms, but still I felt cold.

I am made of impractical atoms. They buzz about clumsily,

like June bugs. My blood spills here & everywhere.

Our child will soon inherit the mess I made. Babe,  

a confession disguised as an observation: Post-baby our dynamic 

will change. You will have less time for me—

of that I am certain. I have a nasty habit of measuring life

by the losses. There will be times in which

you say I love you & I will mistakenly

think you are talking to me. I will mourn

the sentiments that are not mine to keep.

This morning: You wandered into the kitchen,

eyes full of blue light. You looked at me

as if I’d spent all night building a tower to the sky—

absolutely dazzled. I worry I will become

less remarkable around the baby. A face you’ve grown

used to. Oh how I hate that phrase. It makes me want to

dig my own grave & sneak naps when you 

aren’t looking, until I am more sleep than awake,

until I am so close to death that I hold myself a wake.

Once you give birth, your precious eyes will shoot

in a new direction. How pathetic I am to act

as if there is only room for one 

cannonball in your arsenal.