Glorieta Baby Poem

My baby who is not my baby
You create frescoes on my body, I think of you, akimbo
and smell curry and melon cooled by your vowels.

You flourish and I demure. Secure
in your mother’s embrace with your
Ashkenazi gene pool and Alabama smile.

Your face, little doctor, mends my shish-kabob heart.
You perform an appendectomy on my assumptions
And I fall into the shameless iambic pentameter of love.

I love you like Federico Garcia Lorca loved
Cuba and Castile, like William Butler Yeats loved
Ireland his Ireland, like the Brontes loved the moors.

My charisma is quieted by your glowing amber.
I live on the edge of enamel, your four small teeth,
I hope we never clash. I promise you new shoelaces.

You are the dividend, I am the crashing stock.
You are the flowering locust, I am the salt bush,
so many tributaries converge in your amazed pond.

Someday the flumes of testosterone will croon into you,
but for now this river will carry. The 2:00 AM train whistles
past, my silver heart in your close hand.