Water Babies

BRYAN C. MURRAY

 

 

The open newspaper

&soft yellow sizzling in the small

breakfast pan give order to these mornings,

walking to this table in my boxers

&undershirt or straight

from the shower, toothbrush

in mouth, dripping on the floor,

reading you something tragic

from the day’s paper—

A pregnant woman was shot in the head

but the angel in her belly

still fell out.

 

How did you sleep?

as though I didn’t feel you nudging

my side through the darkness

&rolling away from me

toward the chill of the wall.

While I undress the last pin

wedged deep in the collar

of my new shirt,

you share visions of a woman

(maybe the same one)

who poured out children

like a hydrant

 

on city streets, as the babies pressed

through her, drizzling their oils of life

collecting in the cracks of the concrete.

Water babies, I offer, as if it were

a normal assumption. Nodding,

you slide eggs on my plate

or hands gripping the sink, look

out to the world past our window

then walk away. Somehow,

I missed the point, so I too

stare through this glass box

only to see the hydrant—situated

on the street, untouched until

things catch fire or until

the heat makes it too tempting.