So when you yanked that rib
from me, I think I mentioned
that I felt myself a tad
imbalanced, listing as it were,
and that I feared, not that I am a fearful man,
that I would soon be walking in
circles. But you, knowing all—or so you said—
assured me that we’d see murder and mayhem,
screaming childbirth, babbling incoherence,
floods and boils, before that came to pass.
Yet here I am, post murder and all that mayhem,
one clubfoot following another, an eternal satellite of
my own unintended creation.