The Child We Can Never Have

We talk about the child
we can never have -

the invisible child, the ghost-boy,
the tiny Duke of no-place.

No name or religion, instead we play a game of colour:
what would it be ? Latte ? Mocca ? Teak ?

Black hair tightly curled - stroke it,
like a Resurrection Plant!

My nose and chin. Your sense
of direction. A linguist without doubt,

christening the garden flowers
Bunga, Hana, Blomst.

We walk arm-in-arm,watch him play beside the lake.
He feeds the ducks. He eats ice cream.

His green eyes sparkle. His perfect
teeth (yours) glisten.

At night we dream of a wedding
that will never be

observe the proceedings
in our invalid chairs

(because age may wither us
but never diminish our pride).

He greets us with a smile,
a butterscotch carnation fixed to his lapel,

kisses his parents firmly on
their cheeks. This dutiful son,

he will not be alone. There are
sisters and brothers - ours

but not ours - to help guide him on his way.
As tall as me you say, and moulded

by three cultures. He takes
his bride - his beautiful girl - into his arms

and disappears.