I keep a grainy photo of you on my dresser
and each morning, as I prepare for the day,
I look at you and wonder,
what will you look like when you are born?
Will you have green eyes, like your grandmothers’,
peeking contently up at me as I lay you down to sleep?
Or will you have dark eyes,
deep pools of wonder of the world yet seen?
Will your hair grow long and straight,
leaving forgotten strands on the bedroom floor?
Or will it lay in ringlets that I will curl
around my fingers tips as I hold you contently in my arms?
And what of your nose?
Will it turn sweetly upwards to the sky,
willing the drifting perfume of plumerias outside to delight your senses?
Or will it sit delicately across your face,
tucked neatly into the familiar scent of your father’s skin?
Will your lips be munificent,
curling innocently as I sing to you?
Or will they be shy and contemplative,
each smile a tease for me to cherish?
All these things I wonder as I look at you
in the grainy portrait
And then I touch my belly and I know,
no matter what, I will love you forever.