Startled by Existence

3/90

My Dear little Kayla,

What deep joy

we find in a stalwart tap

as you,

our ballerina in the bag

poke about with fist and foot,

banging on the temple walls …

Lifting us to laughter as you reach

upward into elastic sky,

moving skin like a mole

churning earth

underneath.

Your mother would contend

that these are the antics of an Andrew,

and given that she has

both intuition and an internal seismograph,

I agree, paternalistically

to speak “Andrew” at her stomach

out loud.

But when the three of us go dancing

with the dish rag in hand,

I bet I hold two women in my arms,

and dream about the day

when feisty Kayla J.

leads a pack of younger brothers

through Yosemite.

Your first days of being

were an uncertain whim;

The rhythm that had marked

my young bride’s life with lunar frequency

was less predictable since marriage months before,

and we weren’t sure if the moon was late

or fallen from the sky.

Wonder led to double talk --

convoluted wantings,

with moments of “Oh Dear”

But when you turned our home kit pink,

we celebrated roundly

feeding you on egg rolls

intravenously.

(Kayla was born, in keeping with her father's foreknowledge in June 1990.  He did, however, goof on the brothers.)