Man, dust

At the birth of my daughter

My holes remained whole 
at your arrival. 
I stood there, watching, impotent— 
cut the purple Nike rope, 
heard your voice cry out like an E string, taut. 
I saw your victorious robes in a metal cup. 
There was nothing I could do 
but watch. 

My nipples do not bleed at your munching mouth, 
I do not feed you with milk and blood. 
The quell of your cries comes, 
But not at my cold chest. 
I watch. 

But you— 
you will one day flush in the glow 
of heat: the furnace of life. 
You will be that furnace. 
And I— 
I will envy that you, 
like God with dust, 
make man 
whilst man looks on and on.