Numinous

a fat little boy, not even a boy, not even;
but barely a walker, not even a talker, in his hand—a toy.
sit you down here, my boy, my fat little boy;
momma's got to bustle, about the house, independent
of you, too much to do, must leave you, here, a spell;
you can sit, and play, and watch.

my bottom is big, sucked to the floor, I watch
while her legs go by, her face so high, even
to heaven I would have said if some spell
would have given me my religiosity, my holy toy,
my grown-up sense, my independence
from her, from love, from 'boy.'

oh, she did not abandon her boy,
her darling, her son, but left him to watch
it all go teasingly away, riveting his independent
nature to her stead. his eyes not even
level to her skirt hem; but him, her toy,
her boy, her what, watching her leave—a spell.

now what? now what to do with my hands, this spell
of time and longing and fear that a boy
I'll always be away from thee, a toy
of numinous femininity; they go, i watch
they live, I long: my best things not even
close. would I give anything to be independent?

for time, time, time I sit wishing for that independent
reckoning of this knot, for a princess's kiss which this spell
would dispel, would send me, would make even
the score. but no, I could not wish not to be a boy
on occasion, at least, to see the skirt return, a toy
of the moment, my sacred, my duty, my watch.

so, that, then, is the verb of the day, the year, a life—to watch
this unnatural dependence on her independence
whoever, wherever, what: is this thing a toy?
no. what I should do is try my own spell
to snag a star from heaven itself, to pick up the boy
and hold his sweet heart and mine up even.

For life is a toy
And woman is a spell
And funny is the word "independent."