A daughter of my own
Is what I need to feed
On my lap, by the evening light
And to stroke my chin till night settles
On our dream. One night
To write on a borrowed mobile
A text to a guy and make my jealousies
And good spirits dry; like the hump of
A constipated camel — Dry: as it ought to dawn
On all good parents.
I was reading Yeats with Anudi, some time back,
And I was, like: “try to understand this man
As a father praying for his daughter”. With
Gayatri spivak and Spivak-look-alikes
Rallying around Yeats’ anus. I say, yikes.
Will life take me there, am I fertile true
To thread home and hearth (if not for you)
And hold a dream for a daughter? But,
If it be a son, should I toss him out the window
As if just for fun?