Please Arrive Fifteen Minutes Early

the urologist held my penis   

a thinness between   his hands   his skin   and mine

for my body this kind of touch has a history

I wrote middle first    instead of penis

the urologist held my middle

but that sentence was of shame

& I’m trying to get rid of that which I’m full of

the urologist made a bowl out his hands

for my testicles   we were here to see

why my making a baby wasn’t easy

as my mother warned me it would be      

& once I heard my father say he thought he couldn’t have kids

I know I’ve told you reader    already in another poem

I know capitalism   I participate too    & so you want your moneys wroth

but to hear my father say such a true thing needs repeating

most small fish carried in his mouth remain in his mouth

there’s a future (baby) out there we hope to name

in every dream now I make (baby) sounds

we want to open the door

to another body we’ve made

we are working on a miracle

sometimes it’s a daughter

sometimes it’s a son

Like Coal, Coat, Colder

There is no medical term

for never having fathered a pregnancy

I hope to make one, a (baby), a word

that exist low in the vowels,

so anyone would have to make a canyon

with their mouth to say      their bodies fill with air.

At the end of word there should be a sound

that reminds you of the rising of yeast like the word deed

or dizzy, a word that means the opposite of dance and beach.

After you say       your shame should grow thinner

like a fire betrayed by the whipping of a horse’s tail.

The medical term for a person who has not given birth

is nulliparous, which sounds like a hero

& we all need those. I think

the word should sound a little bitter

which I can be, the smell of fumes

from your uncles’ 89 chevy

or the grinding sound of the truck’s wheels.

When you say      someone should place their hand on your back.

A word that bends into a motive for love.

waste water treatment plant

my daddy drove a shit truck

that smelled when it stopped moving

my daddy worked at a shit plant

where I thought they turned shit into gold

I don’t know   I was young

and my daddy looked like another country

when he sloshed through on Friday

to pick me up before we drove out to get my bother

so the next day we could all go to the dollar movies

or miniature golf    then to Applebee’s    

where we were silent as hair in our food

silent as the neon Bud light lamps

turning everything we did shit green

none of us had a common language

he spoke sediments and sorry

we spoke as bothers farther than where bothers should be

we fought over Sour Patch Kids

soured as we sat

dark bbq sauce on the side of our mouth

our mouths a made mirror of his

once   like there were six pennies in his stomach

he spat the words out    I      thought.   I     couldn’t.    have       kids.

my brother and I became two unknown bells toning

through the town of his penis

I thank God for sour such beginnings

the doctor said it me so easily 

he could been have been singing  

your brain doesn’t tell your body to make enough sperm

Or something like that   

I was swept with weeping from the music in his words

my brain and balls are two towns in one body and they do not share water

no children chase loose hens through the streets in either one

I feed no children slow roasted hens

God knows   I worry about other beginning

God knows   I cook a hen like a saint