Stefan clung, like a primate, to his mother
when he was a kid, a little thing;
I would sometimes take him in my arms, pat
his bulbous head, shake his infant thighs —
And he would cry — for his mother —
offer his tiny fingers, sweet princely monuments,
Releasing and squeezing my fat adult digits,
all the while yelping for her feminine beauty.
As a dutiful father, I would
place him back in her petulant arms —
sated his bloated body content between
her breasts —
And she would extoll my fatherliness,
my manly concern,
all the while shielding and protecting
some arcane ritual of evolutionary
biology
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