To My Thirty-Eight-Year-Old Self

Calvin will be fine,

I want to say

To this woman who

Is one year older than me.

To tell her: You may still

Not be able to tell,

But he will catch up,

And fit into the category

Of “normal” and we’ll

Both laugh at ourselves,

Who never imagined

Normal as a good thing

For anybody, much less

A beautiful, innocent

Baby. Who has a real

Chance at being magnificent.

She’ll say what

Did we know…we were

So worried. Still though,

If anyone ever makes

Fun of him, calls him

Stupid or a spaz

Or anything, I’m sure

Even our eighty-five-year-old

Self, we at our big

Wisdom-apex age,

Will vivisect that anyone

With a grapefruit spoon.

We’ll laugh, but then

She’ll turn to me and say:

But you’re from the past.

You’re just me last year.

You don’t know

Any more than I do.

In fact, she’ll say,

Backing away,

You know even less.

You’re fucking with me.

Then she won’t let me

Touch her or say another

Word. So what was

The point of my coming here?