just about the size of a goldfish

and doesn't even look like a child.

When did he arrive? I don't remember—

the pain must have made me forget.

Anyway, now I have a son

that lives in my cupped-together hands

in a small pool of water I think he needs.

I spend my hours closely watching him,

nervous he'll slip between my fingers

and vanish down some drain forever,

or worse yet, he'll try and swim away.

Each day he gets a little bigger,

till he no longer needs my hands.

I carry him around like a baby,

buy him Pjs with yellow ducks,

and little booties to keep his feet warm.

He smells like the sweetness of a baby,

and smiles at me; I cautiously smile back.

Now he's growing faster by the hour—

and I can no longer handle the weight.

My arms start to tire—I must tell him,

I put his soft cheek on mine, and say

he simply cannot grow any bigger,

he must promise me to always stay small—

so that I know I can love him.