He wants to be born.
So first he enters the dream of the woman
a doctor has told will never conceive.
He lets himself in through the gate
of her sleeping brain during a hard snow
in late November.
He gives himself eyes and hair like hers,
wraps himself in thick fleece, his fingers curving
over the hem, like the paws of a burrowing mammal.
She wakes with the dream of him still clinging,
I’ve birthed a black-eyed baby boy, I’ve carried him
up the aisle of the church to the baptismal font.
She goes to the window where slantwise
snow erases the houses across the street.
Only a curbside lamp on its iron stalk breaks through,
a yellow clot in the boreal blur.
After she has laid aside the dream or forgotten it,
he enters her body sometime in January.
His arrival ignites engines and fires up turbines
with power unknown to her, making her whole
being a construction zone for the laying of foundations,
the framing of the many rooms of his evolving body.
In April, cornerstone and beam well set and level,
he shows her his brain and spine, a string of perfect lights
blinking in the midnight sky of the sonogram.
The doctor is speechless. But the woman
rehearses the names of her beloved living and dead.
She will pick one of them.
She watches the tiny heart strobe in its cage.
Beacon of what is coming in October.
A swaddling blanket. A christening.