When pheromones, ignited by the promise 
in her come-and-get-it smile, our kinetic skin, 
and my hunger, sing to our son of how he got here 
and why it all started, he finds a way to prove  

umbilical cords are longer than desire. 
He cries I just want you, and everything planned 
or selfish and hard, in her, melts and is put on hold.
Something in the ether, in the dark or in our eyes 

warns my mini me that another hymn could be made
in this moment. He remembers he does not share,
wedges his head into our groove, almost reprising 
his birth. Like a wrestler needing to break a figure-four

leg lock or spill the Milk and Water Embrace,
he forces a submission, but we    are patient    and wait.