Bryan Borland honors his husband and anticipates their future son in this breathtaking poem. THIS is how you write a love poem!
My husband thinks of his own father’s chest
of knowledge and worries he doesn’t have the tools to
build a son into being. But I have seen his hands pull
beauty from the barren, roses and stray dogs brought
back to life by the gentle rains from his brow. I know
some day he will make our boy smile by telling of how, before
the animals ever dreamed him, we chose clothes for his unborn
body in a department store, or of the afternoon in the water
park when we pointed at families swimming and invented
his knees. I remember our flight from Boston through a storm,
how he held my hand and asked about my childhood to grant
my mind clemency from the rocking cabin. We were still
stubborn then, getting to know each other, embarrassed
to show the other a single flaw. After an emergency
landing in Texas, I refused to get on another plane and
rented a car to drive the five hours home. He promised to stay
awake next to me but fell asleep against the passing fields,
exhausted from keeping a hundred-ton machine in the air
through will and love for me. My husband worries he will not be
a good father. I fear turbulence and runway fires, everything
that could go wrong. I do not fear nights when our son will cry.
I’ve heard the songs my husband will sing. I rest easy.
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Photo by stellarocha /Flickr