The Birthday Candle
Melted to its first nudity
And let the smile glitter on your lips.
The tongue of the baby was a tongue of flame,
His mouth was washed with natal roseate.
I don’t regret that I killed you clinically.
I was advised by her, your mom,
The matron of my clinic, my home,
To await bleeding before she could bear you down
Down on to a downy bed.
I wanted you hard when I was soft
You came soft when the coming was hard.
The candle, going down naked,
Dropped its dress in doughy folds.
It was regression to my childhood
While the father was a baby-loving baby.
All the same, I celebrated my nudity
Instead of yours, my unborn child!
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