A couple of years ago, this poem earned me the runner-up gong in the Darebin literary competition.
It's not fantastic - the rhythm's clumsy, and perhaps it's twee.
But it reveals how I felt on the day Nikos was born. And I like to remember my own awe.
That fat word,
waddling about engorged
in magazines and art gallery small talk.
I find it trimmed down,
in the bloodshot eyes,
salty upper lip,
and bloodied amniotic Miro-strokes,
of my wife’s heaving torso;
and in the blinking squints
of my squirming son.