You’re going to be a father.
I remember you in Mrs. Taylor’s Spanish class
sprawled over two desks, sleeping.
I remember you showing me a donkey jaw bone,
the newest instrument in your musical repertoire.
You taught me to make french toast with applesauce instead of eggs.
I kissed you before I left for college.
(You let me.)
I found an origami rose on my car
for my 18th birthday.
Now you’re going to be a father.
You’re getting married in Brazil.
You know Portuguese and Spanish.
Once, you paid for my Mexican food
after I broke up with David Kennell.
You showed me how to climb roofs.
I snuck into your house
and got caught cuddling with your sleeping cousin.
I thought he was you.
I read the graffiti while you deejayed at FSU.
We shared vegan soul food in Railroad Square.
I reclined on your makeshift bed in the warehouse you shared with your brother,
while you remained impassive in your chair.
You’re going to be a father
and I can see all the points
but I can’t connect them,
make a line to here
where now you’re engaged
and you’re going to be a father
and we’re only 24
and you’re going to be a father
and you live in Miami
and I live in Ohio
and you’re going to be a father.
Rosalie Hendon is an environmental planner living in Columbus, Ohio with her husband and many house plants. She started a virtual poetry group in 2020 during quarantine that has collectively written over 200 poems. Her work is published in Change Seven, Planisphere Q, Call Me [Brackets], Entropy, Pollux, Superpresent, Cactifur, Fleas on the Dog, Red Eft, Rising Phoenix, MockingHeart, Ariel’s Dream, and Willawaw. Rosalie is inspired by ecology, relationships, and stories passed down through generations.
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