He asks me daily how tall
he will be, and I wonder if he believes
that I fumbled through his father's semen,
reached into my ovaries
and selected specific genes.
His feet now a man's size,
his hands long and slender like a mature
marijuana leaf growing
wild along County Line Road.
When I cup them in mine,
I feel his need to palm a basketball,
the curve of his wrist angled
toward a rim, and I know he
wants to be that height,
to feel his fingers curl around
the red-rimmed bucket without reaching.
Each time he asks, I tell him I don't know,
but that nature has a way of making
sons taller than their fathers.
My answer is not specific
because I can't remember his father's
height, only how our pelvises met
one too many times, how I never
looked at his face even when I told
him I wanted a divorce.
But my answer makes him smile,
You're going to be a giant.
