Dear William,
I'm writing to tell you about your father's command performance
and your brother,
or at least my half of your brother.
Your brother was caught unaware
by the fluorescent lights,
small couch,
and the "Today Show" on the television in the waiting area,
but we rose to the occasion anyway.
I took the instrument in my hand
and with very little effort,
doffed the layers for fighting back the cold
because the venue was warm
and I no longer needed restriction.
I wanted my hands and arms free,
to be clearly comfortable in what many would call a sterile environment.
Your brother never even saw it coming,
but he burst forth
like some sort of sputtering geyser
and looked at his home,
a 4 ounce specimen jar with my name written on the side.
He was quickly moved from the warm end of the instrument and rough fingers
to this jar and then was sealed inside.
to this jar and then was sealed inside.
His new home was much larger than what was really needed:
a thimble, 10CC, Loving Spoonful, he would have been easily at home in a test tube,
but so it was, a mansion in relative terms.
He rolled around on the chair next to the magazines
that were as much a part of this command performance as my nimble fingers,
while I donned my jackets
and prepared to make the circuitous route to yet another
fluorescent, sterile room
where I handed him off to a cute woman,
a blonde in a lab coat-oh my-
who promptly placed him in a dorm room fridge.
That was as close to the college experience your brother would get,
and I felt sad.
What is the miracle of birth when you worry that your count is low
because you smoke pot
and ride your bike a bit too much?
What is the miracle of birth when you notice the two copies of "Playboy"
on the chair in the room and sex, orgasm, ejaculation
are just mechanical acts?
What is the miracle of birth when you know that the nurse and medical assistant that smiled at you
know you just wacked off?
The miracle of birth my ass.
While religion makes sex dirty, science has turned sex into a pedestrian act.
Something that happens in a small room with outdated issues of "Playboy"
next to the signs that tell you to wash your hands.
February 8, 2011.
Don McIver
1801 Gold Ave. SE
Albuquerque, NM 87106
