(on the occasion of the birth of André the Giant)
Whose skin did you roar out of?
This is God’s honest
a half-digested curd of worker
winking out of a practiced orifice.
Oh, the future and effluvium.
A healthy second son.
You announced your own entrance,
punched an uncle who leaned close.
Five seconds on the planet
and already the bon vivant.
Struck from the middle of your mother’s
pregnant decade. Ou est le médecin?
Le médecin n’est pas içi.
Ton père the unelected
mayor of the village.
Polish cousins. Bulgar stock.
Pan-Europa for the Rousimoff’s
every eighty-so years.
To the eye, a small farm.
A hearty wife with secret genes.
And an average-sized baby.
A baby you could stand inside the heel of a boot.