When the night is anxious and her hard cloak weighs heavy on me, I am a man whose desires swell in the belly, who is not privy to the time or place of their birthing.
Body weak, mind made useless by moving down reluctant paths to places where I do not wish to go, thoughts turning, always turning back into myself.
I leave my solitary pad, take this restless child in my stomach to the window to watch the night carry on without us.
Car wind, night breeze, your breathing in your own place of rest behind me mix with my whispered prayers.
Bathed in streetlamp light, I am spirit, a ghost of the man I once was, lost and faraway from the growing one within, from the life that is you in the bed behind me.
The ministry of mosquitoes brings my body back to me. Anger flashes at their desecration of my temple. But have I been less defiling?
Through the pinpricks, sleep comes without answers. The baby will not be born tomorrow, but she is one day closer to her birth.