Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo’s mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools’ Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.
– Sylvia Plath
I’m seeing my baby on Thursday. Seeing him in 3D. I’ll see what his face looks like, what he’s doing with his hands. If his eyes are opened or closed. I’ve already seen the shape of him in black and white, his shape in TV fuzz. I’ve already seen his arms and legs measured, his brain and heart looked at. I know he has all ten fingers, but I couldn’t quite make out the toes. But on Thursday I could, if I remember. If I’m not too busy looking at his face. To see what nose he has, how much hair? Does he smile or yawn? Does he try to suck his thumb?
It feels like cheating, but I don’t care. Some people like to wait, they like the surprise. I’m not one of them. I want a face to go with the little alien in my tummy, the squirmy little worm.
You know, it feels like waiting to meet someone you know from online. And maybe I’m the only person in the world who thinks that. That was how I met Jim. The anticipation and excitement is the same. I’ve seen his picture. I feel like I know him a little already, but I know that I’ll know him so much better soon. It’s like waiting to meet a new friend, but different, because he’ll be family.
It’s all coming together so quickly now.