My Dear Little Kayla by Kirk Jordan

(1991)

Editor's Note: The poet of this work relayed that the subject written of in the poem is now a mother herself.

What deep joy
we find in a stalwart tap
as you, our ballerina in the bag
poke about with fist and foot,
banging on the temple walls …
lifting us to laughter as you reach
upward into elastic sky,
moving skin like a mole
churning earth
underneath.

Your mother would contend
that these are the antics of an Andrew,
and given that she has both
intuition and an internal seismograph,
I agree, paternalistically
to speak “Andrew” at her stomach
out loud.

But when the three of us go dancing
with the dish rag in hand,
I bet I hold two women in my arms,
and dream about the day
when feisty Kayla J.
leads a pack of younger brothers
through Yosemite.

Your first days of being
were an uncertain whim;
The rhythm that had marked
my young bride’s life with lunar frequency
was less predictable since marriage months before,
We weren’t sure if the moon was late
or fallen from the sky.

Wonder led to double talk --
convoluted wantings,
with moments of “Oh Dear”
but when you turned our home kit pink,
we celebrated roundly
feeding you on egg rolls
intravenously.