To my son, on becoming a photo

You arrived through the mail in standard long airmail form.
You came unexpectedly.
                     Like me.

You stare out at me from the arms of a woman I should have known.
Both of you chemicals now, what can I do with you?
Do I let you hang
                 from the wall
         or do I hide you away somewhere
                              out of sight from careless curiosity.

You can't see me, may never see me, may never know I'm sorry.
I did this to myself.

You were born only once
   (backward--with the supposed help of incompetent,
    standardized, socialized doctors--struggling to live)
   but now I have four of you:

       Two, white and black, from the bed that found you;
       Two, white and blue, from the arms that will always hold you

away from me

January, 1991