My pimpled skin; your father's beard-specked face;
Thus armed in stupid youth to show our worth
We had our baby in that foreign place,
Two soldiers of the cold war, giving birth.
They strapped my hands, lest I should touch the babe,
And sliced my rear half-open for its bower;
Then threw iced antiseptic on my labe,
And made me, bloodless, fainting, walk to shower.
So you and I were clean at first embrace,
Your long musician's fingers smelling sweet;
You mostly legs, with precious sleepy face,
And silky hair, and huge and lovely feet.
So perfect, marred by just one mortal brand:
Your bone-cut knee*, like Hawthorne's fairy hand.