My son's legs are solid as pestles 
and runic stones, 
as tapered as larch trees. 
I delight in the perfection of his legs. 
It's for him that our ancestors 
reared up and stuttered across the plains. 
For him that those on two legs 
slowly straightened their spines 
and rolled back Promethean shoulders. 
So that my son can walk through the house 
in his underwear when he should be sleeping. 
So that I can turn him out of my room 
on his glorious legs— 
no firebird's golden feathers more precious 
than those corn cob thighs. 
No seraphims' burning wings more glorious 
than those calves unbloomed with veins.
And those wide, always dirty feet, 
that run when they should walk. 
Twinned staffs, swords, thunderbolts!