Fictional Children

1. 

My daughter the astronaut, admitted claustrophiliac, 

known homebody, prefers her own company 

to that of others dwelling in the cockpit 

despite shared mission, vision, goals, etcetera.

She speaks as if through the breathy screen 

of a confessional. I occupy 

the middle stall for listener-in-chief.

Mother, other, only partly severed 

ever from the bones and young skin of the child.

Always the child, now prone to flight, as I am 

left to fight, unconditionally, for her 

every want, her gaunt and afraid 

invisible fear of her own energy.

Perhaps resembling my own, a mere

parallel that takes explaining. Whom

to tell, except you, dear reader, equally 

untrue. But I insist you into being.

If asked what truth comprises, I would say

always the most resonant pose spawned by

yearning and figurative clay. We were taught 

that God was a lonely lank who wanted

company. Fellow beings. Why TV

came true. While selling products, stories  

and pictures but mostly characters came true. 

Thus you, my seemingly confident daughter, 

who only fractionally needs me, knows me,

comes true again and again. You are why 

I read. I read into you. Your life is

up to you.

2.

My homespun son is plain. Look at his un-

handsome face I proclaim is handsome,

all evidence to the contrary.

I wanted him not to exist, and then,

mimicking God, perhaps, I reined in

my constant self and found him a lockstep

profession, counting things in cubicles, 

the returning home each night to recover

from a mildly interesting pursuit

including others equally ambivalent 

about their life's work, the perpetual

reason for being reported to others

authorized to stamp your hand and let you in 

to the proceedings again and again.

No deadbeat, you. Your mother loves you.

My son, you are threshold everything to me.