You were not conceived, despite the spent seed,
the rich bed of blood. You did not laden my life
with bittersweet fruit: memorable sayings,
illness, brilliance, a body made of mine, either
like or unlike. Your gender is neutral, or,
it is your own, your selfness. You love who
and what you love with fire and ice. You are
a pearl of the world, gem of grit and spit,
that gives you a shell and a tongue both salty
and sweet. We speak once a day, week,
month, year, decade. I did you right
and wrong from my own pocket of wounds and stars.
Fleet as the scent of mock orange on the wind,
you are a blossom of loss, phantom limb.
