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A white laser
conceived a baby inside me.
The three of us,
the light and my two eyes,
conceived a baby at a glance.
Stop blossoming! I yelled at
a nearby tree, but I was
fearing my own belly.
Snagged in the branches
a red used condom
and below it, precariously below it
a nail gun, an egg, and my baby.
My baby! My baby so quickly born
gripping a nail gun in his hand
and an egg in his other hand
putting one and two together,
not old enough yet for
humiliation or hope, but old enough
to know what goes where.
I took out my phone,
whether to call for help or
to record what happens
I still do not know.
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DONALD DUNBAR lives in Portland, Oregon, and is the author of Eyelid Lick (Fence Books) and Slow Motion German Adjectives (Mammoth Editions). He helps run If Not For Kidnap and the Poetry Data Project, and edits poetry for draft: The Journal of Process. sparethe.blogspot.com
in issue eight
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