Birth of my Boy

Sunday afternoon

the foot of the bed

calf deep in bloody gore

a pair of blunt scissors

for an eighteen inch bootlace

of gristle

your screaming face

covered in blood and shit

demanding me

without saying who you are

or what you want

I want your mother back

but her eyes are lolling like a darted tigress

and I am in charge of you

for the first and only time