Prehistory
- Taylor Fang
- Feb 9, 2023
- 1 min read
In the ultrasound he’s Johnny Appleseed
in sneakers, seventh malted milk ball
from the sun. He’s a daisy chain
of good luck—think
a-boat it, boasts his dad
at the hotel, sipping
his paper cup of lukewarm tea—
someday he could be president
or better. Leader
of all the yet-to-be sons, pope
though they aren’t religious, beau
ideal to every big cheese.
And what else?
In the ultrasound you can’t tell
he’ll lie under the bridge
on Sundays, letting the sea break
against his temple. You can’t tell
he’ll kneel on the kitchen floor
to let the lonely ants
search his kneecaps. Age nineteen,
he’ll load up red tubs
of noodles, take night shifts that turn papery
and weak in his throat.
He’ll swallow pills
out of a Coke can
to clear the dust. He’ll shake
8-balls. Browse museums
for cubist paintings.
And the girl
sleeping on these porch steps?
They’ll slide down the fire escape
hand-in-hand,
like the weight
of summer, late.