for Felix and Jackson
The baby is asleep
the first time I visit his room,
his nursemaid nodding by the empty fireplace.
I creep to his cradle.
His eyes are closed, calf head turned to the side,
his body covered in soft brown fur to his belly. Hideous.
Except…
He’s kicked off his blankets
revealing fat baby legs, wholly human,
skin mottled from the night chill in the fireless room.
His squalling cries make the king rage
but now I reach out tentatively, with one finger,
and touch his leg. Soft and smooth, like any baby.
And I…
count his tiny, fragile toes. Ten.
From the waist down, he’s only a baby. But
then I look again at his head. Its head.
And I jerk my hand away. Stare
at his muscular arms, too muscular for a two-month-old,
and covered in fur. But his hands are human.
Yet I…
suppress a shudder, force myself to count
ten tiny fingers on a grotesque arm.
What has my mother done?
My mother…
My mother bore this child.
Which means that this beast is
at least in some part
my brother?
The bull-baby squirms in his sleep
but doesn’t cry. There are goosebumps on his tiny hands
and chubby legs. The fireless room is cool.
So I…
Tug the blanket back up, over those legs,
over that half hairy, half smooth stomach,
over those strange arms, up to the calf chin.
Then I…
snatch my hand from the cradle and
rush from the room, unable to stand it.
Is there room in my heart for a monster?
When I reach my own room, alone
again in the dark, I remember his
soft, chubby, baby legs, and I think
perhaps…
…I can make room.
