Hospital, and the fathers' room, where light
Won't look you in the eye. No emergency
But birth. I sit with the friend, and listen
To the unwounded clock. Indirectly glowing, he is grayer,
Unshaven as I. We are both old men
Or nearly. He is innocent. Yet:
What fathers are waiting to be born
But myself, whom the friend watches
With blessed directness? No other man but a worker
With an injured eyeball; his face had been there
When part of an engine flew up.
A tall nurse blotted with ink
And blood goes through. Something written
On her? Blood of my wife? A doctor with a blanket
Comes round a blind corner. "Who gets this little girl?"
I peer into wool: a creature
Somewhat strangely more than red. Dipped in fire.
No one speaks. The friend does not stir; he is innocent
Again: the child is between
Me and the man with one eye. We battle in the air,
Three-eyed, over the new-born. The doctor says,
"All right, now. Which one of you had a breech baby?"
All around I look: look at the possible
Wounded father. He may be losing: he opens his bad eye.
I half-close one of mine, hoping to win
Or help. Breech baby. I don't know. I tell my name.
Taking the doctor by his arms
Around her, the child of fire moves off. I would give one eye for her
Already. If she's not mine I'll steal her.
The doctor comes back. The friend stirs; both our beards
Quicken: the doctor is standing
Over me, saying, "This one's yours."
It is done: I set my feet
In Heavenly power, and get up. In place of plastic, manned rubber
And wrong light, I say wordlessly
Roll, real God. Roll through us. I shake hands
With the one-eyed man. He has not gained
A child, but may get back his eye; I hope it will return
By summer starlight.
The child almost setting
Its wool on fire, I hold it in the first and last power
It came from: that goes on all the time
There is, shunting the glacier, whirling
Whole forests from their tops, moving
Lava, the flowing stone: moving the hand
Of anyone, ever. Child of fire,
Look up. Look up as I lean and mumble you are part
Of flowing stone: understand: you are part of the wave,
Of the glacier's irrevocable
Millennial inch.
"This is the one," the friend repeats
In his end-of-it daze, his beard gone
Nearly silver, now, with honor, in the all-night night
Of early morning. Godfather, I say
To him: not father of God, but assistant
Father to this one. All forests are moving, all waves,
All lava and ice. I lean. I touch
One finger. Real God, roll.
Roll.
