Did Winston Churchill ever wonder about his moment of conception,
After which spent parents retire in strongly scented
Nightgowns that sweep the way
To narrow beds in separate rooms?
Did William Burroughs envision an angry couple
Soaked in bourbon, fighting furiously,
Then thrashing about in the rumble seat of a 1928 Ford?
Did William F Buckley wonder if it was as good for Mummy,
As he knew it must have been for Dad?
Do Pope Francis and Sarah Palin even care?
Jim Harrison wisely scolds us not to
“Think of the mood of your parents”
At the moment “which so vitally affects your destiny.”
Then wonders if his folks were
“Pissed off, drunk, bored watching TV news.
Listening to country music,
Or hopefully out in the orchard grass
Feeling the crunch of windfall apples
Under their frantic bodies.”
My moment was somewhere in Mexico. I know that
As they lived there until a month before my arrival,
When convinced that revolution was imminent,
They fled suddenly north by train.
But was it in Cuernavaca
On a sultry hungover Saturday morning?
Or Guanajuato in that bohemian garret
Borrowed for a lone weekend?
Or on the Reforma, around the block from Frida’s place?
I hope it was there.
But moreso, particularly if it shapes my destiny,
I want it to have been hot.
August sun piercing the shades,
A slow fan turning overhead,
Sweat dripping from sinewy bodies,
Mouths open, eyes locked,
Strong arms entangled for an hour or more,
A tear perhaps,
As two minds begin to suspect
That something more than love had been made.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark Dowie is an investigative historian, songwriter and now a published poet living on the outskirts of Willow Point California.