I.

I’d try to raise you soft, like resting dough rising

into something full. I am scared of your edges,

because surely you will have edges, every man

I have ever known has shown me their clipped

corners, jagged palms. What happens if despite

everything you still grow ragged? Grow into the

violence that is expected of you? I am so used to

crafting armor for my daughters I forget that

you need to be stripped down. This is not to say

your sisters are only warriors & you a boy

of flowers & clove, but only that I have to prepare

you for different lives. This world does not like

soft boys. They will tug at your body like putty,

affix their torches to your skin, show you power

in blood. You might succumb. I’ll try to protect you.

II.

I knew a boy who imagined me an ember, glowing

& full of heat. He was quick to snuff me out,

beneath the heel of his boot, as if the smoke were

a prize, a sign of conquering. I want to teach you

how to covet open arms & denounce anything less,

how to be a boy that does not don himself as predator.

Would you listen? Scoff? To me you are a wildcard

unlike your sisters. What if you’re like me, too?

A mess of mania & low points. An amalgamation

of risk, one charged day is all you’d need to jump.

I promise to catch you.

III.

Once I was a jellyfish. Long stemmed and bulbous,

buzzing beneath the water. Another day, an octopus,

eight sweeping arms, a hidden beak. Both times

a threat of limbs. A saltwater siren. If you inherit

the sea, sometimes I imagine fins. Scales along

your arms, a multicolor mirage. You & your

sisters will swim together, side by side, a flock

of your own design. A bloom. If you do not inherit

the sea, will you look like the man who wrapped me

in netting? Or the one with the spear aimed at

my throat. How do I give you enough of me to make

this work? I will not drown you, trust me, please.

Let me at least teach you to swim, to press toes

beyond the surface, to submerge.

IV.

Child, I will still give you everything I give your sisters.

You will know how to slip garlic from its skin, how to

simmer coconut milk into curries. You’ll map constellations

& if nothing else, believe in the stars. In incense smoke

& rose water. My father can speak to spirits & I wonder

if you’ll inherit such a thing, if your tongue will be both

human & holy. I’ll tell you about the dreams, the dead.

About every ancestor living between your shoulder

blades. You don’t have to believe me. If nothing else,

let me tell you stories of god & my grandmother, you

decide where to go from there. I will tell you so many

stories my love. If nothing else, inherit those. Measly

offerings of a worn mother.