Your mother in December
I imagine her, 1970's
with black hair, the globe of
you, close to emerging from
the sunken confines of her womb,

I imagine you, embryonic,
younger, already then two
other boys, swimming
through the salt of a vein,
crestfallen, at the luck
of the draw

to be born last, younger
than anyone else so close
to Christmas, and now
so many decades later

you fill my mind like kaleidoscopic
silent films, relive memories I never
summersaulted through, and I
told you once that

children who have no siblings have
less memories than children that do,
and you were amazed; once
I read books to your oldest brother

in the hospital, danced with him
and your mother at a summer party
when the two of them were holed up
in the house, like owls, observing,

and then, much later, I flirted with your
other brother on the beach, we waxed
poetically about nuclear physics and the fact
that there has been a war going on

consecutively, for most of my life, but
my mind, now, travels back to your mother,
my mind, midwifery to the contradiction
of you,

so much you, so much,
and I imagine you under fairy lights
strung against the muscles of a tree branch,
gnarled with the hot summer sun,

imagine the pull of air sucked from one soul
to the other, imagine my mouth empty of
words, tongue slick from the sweat of you,
my mind, regressing

and there's so little changed about the two of us,
so unchanged, the polite chit chat, my poems,
revamping you into fundamental flesh and corporeal
rhyme,

but always your mother, pregnant with her last child,
your first breath, explosively surrendering to the world,
a greater good, the hand stretched across my shoulders,
lazily,

and your mother, naturally, or your
brothers, the way your mouth puckers
from ineptitude when in the same room
as them,

but for me there was always just you,
just you
just you

just
you;

and your mother, of course.