wildscape. literary journal

On Fatherhood – Year One
by Camden Michael Jones

i. when that first squeeze took you, I was asleep & you bowed before the toilet & it wasn’t until a quarter past this is happening you pulled me from our pillows between quakings & the hospital said because she is your first wait & we did & you were eight centimeters when we walked through those double security doors & you swam through endless

ii. mid-labor we showered & I held you & our daughter crept downward & the water mixed with blood & mucus to wash at our ankles & we hummed together with voices wet & the bathroom echoed with us

iii. I cried & it was release it was the snap of too taut it was that first hello it was that I’m proud of both of you

iv. & you have so many words now & your feet sound like those of geckos on the hardwood all gummy and sweet-smelling & you love music more than I loved anything until your mama & you & you dance with hips swaying & knees bending & there in the soft space below my sternum tiny feet beat out new rhythms in the flesh

v. we shared the hammock today, a Thursday home from work & daycare & the playlist was right for the afternoon under the sun & we rocked, you with your book of textures & my library of poems & you babbled against the breeze & peeled your socks off to better feel the grass between pigs far too small for market

vi. and thank you

about the author // Camden Michael Jones