Not all waters of the body are pure
some are as thick as ink.
Our father’s ink has always been a mystery
a viscid emission,
a translucent missive
detonated upon mission complete.
An heirloom of spies
of undercover undertaking
written in the way of invisible ink
the way one scribbles with milk on onionskin.
After it dries, try toasting over a lightbulb
reveal something unspoken turned sepia
a puzzle exposed by light and heat–
but we want another kind of poem.
A nice one about hope
something nimble, a catch and release story
a “one that got away” wink and nod
a tale that leaves peals of laughter in its wake.
How can we write about our father’s
semen and not seem unseemly?
I don’t want to read a poem about anything
south of my father’s buckle.
But a genetic light has darkened a page
in our family’s history. This masculine
material of fluidity has awakened a microscopic
Microfiche, the underbelly of our ancestors.
Flicking through photo albums
it’s easy to see our mothers’ stomachs distended
with human contents but our fathers’ bodies remain
solitary in their being, coupling sure,
holding babes aloft on shoulders,
napping with miniature twins
but all along they’ve been inscrutable sires
of unknown broods, really, how are we to know?
Fatherhood is now a bad neighborhood
a dangerous channel road. Slippery business
with the help of 23 and Me or an Ancestry link.
It’s indelible proof positive with a simple sample of spit.
It was never a woman’s word.
Centuries of seeds planted in random soil
often without label, bastards they called them
born out of denial, ruined women, shattered lives.
Which makes me think of the way
the breeze can deliver a juniper seed
say on the precipice of a crag.
Resilience can grow in spite of conception
or windblown moments of possession
against all odds, no help from the father
other than urgent release, other than a moment
of spent emission. So many rose to shape sun and twist storm
into limb and heart despite water and skimpy reserves.
A father’s ink is tossed off
with or without intention, lust or love.
It’s a hard pill to swallow,
concentrated chromosomes
a memoir written with pulse and sigh
brilliantly designed for legacy,
to double in size and take over the host.
That’s how we got in this fix.
How soon before they ban these DNA kits
received as gifts but often blame,
validation of a past not forgotten, embodied
in offspring despite claim or knowledge
somethings you can’t shake.
Insoluble and sticky, children rise and thrive,
knock on the door
Surprise.
