the child you hold,
the child on your knee,
is the child we spoke of
during endless rainy nights.
the past and present collide,
like two negatives superimposed
in some ironic picture of what might have been.
for you know she is not yours.

in your more perfect world,
where I was a boy
and sperm meeting sperm
could make a child,
it might have been reality.

speared through by jagged shards of “what ifs”,
my indelible mark
tattooed on your soul
threatens to crack
in bloody remorse,
as you cradle
Anasthasia-then
Emili-now
in the crook of your arm.