When your mom’s womb water broke
I knelt once more in front of her
Dampened my pants with amniotic splashes
Somehow this part of you
Is a porcelain tea kettle smashed on the tile
Dropped like a little ball

With my bath towel I collect your residue
Like a squeegee clears a windshield

The fluid dribbled down your mother’s leg
The way a terrified boy would pee his pants
That must have been your influence
Maybe you knew what was descending

A tea kettle would bounce up
Then scatter itself in all directions
The tiny shards of your last nine months
I picked up with a rag

Just as the cloth in my hand became a baby blanket
I turned into a father
And my kitchen tile absorbed some splinters of us
Holding the moment before I started making mistakes

The grout keeps your DNA
The first photograph of us
Together