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GWENDOLYN JOYCE MINTZ
The Son That He Wanted Wasted sperm. My father’s assessment of me when I managed to fail him in one of the many ways he kept count of. I was ingenious, it seemed, at finding yet another manner through which I could disappoint him, though my intention was, of course, to make him proud. I was his son, but not the son that he wanted. Frequently, he cursed the sperm cell that created me. Held that very one in contempt, despite the fact that it overtook the millions, swimming through the birth canal, up the blood-rich uterus, to penetrate the one egg cell descending — its homing. “I should've shot that load in my hand and washed you down the drain,” he once declared in frustration. Not what I should be thinking of as I lie with my wife, but my father’s words center me. My wife hungers for a child I am unwilling to create, and she sighs — in sadness, in disgust — as I pull away. Her sigh does not bind me. I pull away, my seed spilling across her. Spilling, but not, I believe, entirely wasted. Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz is a fiction writer and poet. She can be reached at gwendolynjoycemintz@yahoo.com |
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© 2005 Underground Voices |
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