His Eyes are Becoming

Nine days old and I still can’t tell the colour of his eyes. In his olive-green jumpsuit, they’re most certainly green. Sometimes I spot veins of caramel and gold—they’re hazel. When his mood turns his eyes are infinite black. They…

He Is Born

Compacted, pickled and purple, cradled by our doctor whom I’ve come to know by her lip-chewing, head-tilting inspections between each round of pushing, as though contemplating a chess board, as the Grandmaster. Our boy is trussed up in his cord.…