This is about my middle child.
It's very self-explanatory.
It's called "Love's Relative." The couple who remain in bed are not alike.
He's tanned and hairy, has a fierce Egyptian hand.
She's dimpled, brief, alas contrary.
Rather defenseless on the sheet when
morning oozes in the cracks.
Her tiny toes, his monster feet, both of them upon their backs.
Her years are two and his are 30.
He's long and bony, somewhat glum.
Her little peaceful feet are dirty.
She sucks a firmly calloused thumb.
At some point in the evil dawning,
this oedipal arrangement grew.
The leap from crib to bed while yawing mother in disdain
withdrew.
O man whose waking breeds confusion,
protect the comfort of her sleep.
Hers is the primal, bright illusion from which
she makes the bridal leap.