In the bleak, my son flutters inside me. I carry him. Nine, eleven, eighteen years a potbellied daemon. Then the sword, then the tongue. He pierces. Cuts, chops, steps out into the resonant world. I diminish. Smile at the demigod before me. All will tremble at my terrible work.
I wrote this one after my first son was born. I had children later in life than most of those I grew up with. That person you imagine is never quite the same once they are actually in the world. Imagining them as a dark fantasy just felt right at the time. Yet, they are so light, loving, and sweet. Still, his middle name is Danger, so he might stab me with a sword one day.
Image by Jupi Lu from Pixabay