Baby Archer

 

My hips spread to make
room. I walked across fire,
to ensure history stayed
in the past. I strung an arrow
for his brain and another for his heart,
aimed to teach him to be a man.

Baby Archer has his own quiver,
reads his own books, writes his own
words, and clears his own dishes.
He has an arrow strung to convince me
that he’s a man already.

Baby Archer observes, marks
slurred speech, the smell of booze.
He sees tantrums, knows this man
is not a child, but I have to explain
how he’s not really a man.

Baby Archer, born of my sign,
spread my hips because room had
to be made. He sits on top
of my thighs and we witness
the stars. He pokes at the fire,
pulls out the glowing tip and
traces Chiron in the sky.