The air out here is dry and thin, and when the wind picks up, sharp little parts of earth scatter around, looking for the wet parts of you to settle on. I don’t mind the wind, or the dust, or the long smear of sky that runs smack the into the chubby mountains that sit out on the edge of town. 

I had a dog once, but that seems like a long time ago. Some nights I dream he’s lying next to me in bed, his dirty black and white coat twitching in his sleep. But I think the coyotes got him. He was smart, little man. He would’ve liked you, even now, when you’re still unformed, just a cluster of cells growing inside me. 

The folks at the welfare office in El Paso don’t know about you yet. I’ll wait till I’m showing a little more. I don’t want you to worry about the food stamps, or this busted little trailer. I’m a hard worker, you’ll see that in time. I got laid off from my long-haul trucking job a year ago, but things turn around. All that matters is I can feel you, growing inside me. And soon I’ll set up the doctor’s visits, where they’ll run their hands over my swole-up belly, where the skin is stretched so tight, and they’ll get real gentle and quiet and say, deep breath, a little coldness now, and then I’ll see you, suspended inside me, your skin and bones like wet clay, and I’ll probably cry, little man. I’ll probably cry real hard. 

I don’t want to be in the news, or on T.V., nothing like that. I’m pretty shy, little man. But I don’t think I’ll be shy around you. Things are rough around here, but you can keep a little soft if you try. I think it’s the soft piece inside of me that you latched onto, started feeding on. I think maybe I swallowed you, like a piece of dust whipping you around landed on my lips, and now here you are inside me. You can stay in there for as long as you need. 

I know you’re there. I can’t tell anyone else, not yet. But you and me, we know. My belly’s starting to show a little, like you’re sitting low and tight, just under my skin and hair. I know you’re there. When I sit outside in the mornings, the air is so cold and still it makes my teeth hurt and I  just sit there and watch the light come over everything, and I think maybe God gave you to me, or maybe the panhandle did. 

I’m going to stop smoking these cigarettes, little man. I hope you can’t taste them. They are bad for your gums and organs, and they cost eight bucks a pack. I like sitting out here in the cold, writing these things down. I can hear a pack of coyotes yipping and crying like they are hungry and cold, and I want to rub my belly and tell you, I love you little baby, I won’t smoke much longer. I’m a good guy. You’ll see.

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There was a big fire out this way three or four years ago. They never found out what caused it, but I woke up one morning and the air outside my bathroom window was this deep and greasy gray. I wanted to choke every time I took a breath. I swallowed a half a bottle of codeine and just laid on my bed, thinking I was going to die. But this big guy came pounding on my door, his face all dirty and his teeth shining white. He was scared, I could see how scared he was, and I just started crying hard enough to shit myself. Thought I was going to die. He had to carry me to his truck, and the whole time he was saying, it’s ok, it’s ok, I got you now. I’ve never been carried like that. Carried like a little baby. I remember looking up at all the hot thick air and thinking I’d be alright dying right here, in this big man’s arms. 

The road out to town was clear, but the fire had burned everything to the west pretty good. We were driving nice and easy, being careful you know. And there’s this little heifer standing right in the middle of the road. And she’s staring straight ahead, half her skin burned right off her body, her eyes swole up so bad I couldn’t tell if she even knew we were there. We stopped the truck, and we both got out. I remember smoke coming off her, like she was burning from the inside out, and I couldn’t stop staring at how red and blistered she was. The smell came off her in waves, fatty and sweet. But she didn’t make a sound, just stood there, like she was waiting for the good Lord himself to call her name. And the big man, he pulls out his Glock, and I remember him squeezing his eyes tight like he couldn’t watch what his own hand was doing. That little heifer, she looked right at him, like she saw him and she loved him. We had to drag her off the road, and I remember thinking how light she felt, like the fire had burned away all the heavy parts of her. 

The Red Cross put me up in a hotel for a couple of nights, and I slept real good. I see the big man from time to time, buying cigarettes and Gatorade at the Dollar General, or throwing back shots at the hotel bar in Alpine, but we never look at each other for too long. 

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Sometimes the wi-fi out here works, and I’ll pull out my phone and scroll around on You-Tube, or Porn-Hub. I won’t tell you about porn until later. 

I’ve been thinking about you coming out of me. Until now, I haven’t thought too much about it, just been happy about you living inside of my belly, and then happy thinking about you outside of my belly, the two of us lying in bed, me waking up to your wrinkled little face, new wet eyes staring right at me. I wonder if you’ll split my belly down the middle, or if I’ll push you out of me like an enormous shit. I watched videos of women giving birth today, legs sprawled wide open, round misshapen heads emerging, full of hair and blood and mucous. I love how exhausted and sweaty the women are, their cheeks flushed, their eyes hard and bright. How tender and fierce their hands are when the babies are laid on their bellies or chests. I think about my belly quivering with you, your hands pushing up against my skin. I wonder if my pocketknife will be sharp enough to slice through the thick skin of my stomach. 

I was in the grocery store today, behind a lady with two kids. I could only see the one at first, he kept pulling on her skirt, carrying on, his cheeks red and swollen, mouth gaping open. And then she turned, and she had a little one tucked up against her, fabric wrapped around the two of them, her baby’s head resting all sweaty against her chest. She saw me standing there, staring, and she smiled, put a hand on her older boy’s head, the other cradling the newborn. You feel like a new mother every time, she said. They stood in line behind me while the cashier rang up my canned beans and cartons of Pall Mall’s. I was glad the boy was still crying and yanking on his mother’s arms as she unloaded their cart, glad that she didn’t hear the cashier tell me my food stamps didn’t cover the cigarettes, that she’d have to ring them up as a separate transaction. 

You feel like a new mother every time, I kept saying to myself as I drove back home. 

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Amazon sells a t-shirt that says “Boy Mom” in blue cursive letters. They didn’t have any men’s sizes, so I bought a women’s medium. My belly still isn’t big enough, so I tied it tight in a little knot at the small of my back. I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, cupping my belly, where you are floating inside, your jelly limbs tucked up tight. I stuck out my ass and tied the t-shirt tighter, and took a picture of myself in the mirror. I like this picture of us, little baby. I like how my belly is poking out from beneath the t-shirt, how I am cradling you so tightly, the hair on my stomach sticking out and around my fingers. I think someone who saw that picture would say, look at this new mama! Look how he’s glowing!

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I miss you. I wish you were here already. I wish I would stop drinking codeine and Sprite and smoking a pack a day. I think when you are finally here I will stop all of my bad habits. I wish I could stop thinking about my dog, and how I lied to you about the coyotes eating him. I tied him up outside and forgot to feed him or give him water. And then I woke up one evening, all in a panic, thinking where was he, where was my little pup. I found him lying on his side, eyes closed, little ribs poking out so far. I wanted to kill myself then, baby boy. I guess I tried.

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I wish you were here right now, so I could say look at you, little sandman, you just blew in with the wind. Maybe Oprah would have us on her show, and I wouldn’t be shy or say strange things because you’d be right there, in my arms. I’d buy a wrap, like that woman from the store, wear my “Boy Mom” t-shirt from Amazon. You’d be sleeping against me, and Oprah would say, now here’s a new NEW mother, and the audience would laugh and coo, and you’d wrap your little hand so tight around my finger. No one would say anything bad about a man giving birth, or make jokes about you splitting open my asshole when you came out. Oprah would ask if she could hold you, and your little red face would crinkle up when I tried to hand you to her, and she would laugh and laugh and say, babies belong with their mamas! 

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My stomach hurts a lot today. I think it’s you, mad about something. I know I drank too much last night, so if that’s it, don’t worry. I’m done with that shit. I want you to know I’m going to be a good mother. Not like mine. Sometimes I wish I’d never come out of her. She used to lay around the house, her robe dirty and untied, just sit there with her legs splayed out, her privates dark and hairy. And I’d think, why’d you ever let me out of that thing? 

Sometimes the wind gets going so hard I feel like I could just let myself go, and the gusts would hold me up, my shirt blowing and ballooning up around my arms like a strange angel’s wings. Like God sees me down here, and he made me and he loves me.  

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There are rattlesnakes living under the trailer. My belly is too big and awkward for me to crawl under there, but at night I can hear them, their slick long bodies unfolding and twisting and tangling up together. One of them got in the house today. Saw him out of the corner of my eye, just in time, too. I was about to sit down on my couch, and there it was, sliding up between the cracks of the sofa. I just stood there for the longest time, little man. I think the codeine might slow me down, but that rattle was hypnotizing. I like how it builds up real quiet sh-h-hhh-hhhhh-h. He kept coiling up and then relaxing, like he was trying to get a read on me. He struck out at me, his mouth wide open, milky and endless looking. I don’t think he got me. I don’t know where he went, little man, but that’s ok. I think they’re living under the trailer, lots of them. That’s ok. 

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I’m so proud to be your mama. I can’t wait to hold you tight against me and hear you cry and laugh. I think you’re coming soon. My belly hurts pretty bad these days and keeps getting bigger and bigger. I have to drink more codeine for the pain, little man. I think you understand. My chest is tender and swollen , and when I press down on my new breasts, little drops of clearish liquid comes out, and I feel my whole body expanding with love. 

All day my nipples leaked and my chest ached and my belly hurt, and I felt so full of you and God. The wind is blowing hard today, bending the white-blonde grass and sending prickly little tumbleweeds flying across the yard. I sat outside for a little while, listening to the wind and the snakes and you moving slowly inside of me. 

I can tell you’re on your way, little man. I can’t wait to meet you. I’m gonna rest up real good tonight. Take a shower and throw on my new “Boy Mom” t-shirt. I’ll rub my belly with olive oil and drink a little wine, smoke my last cigarette.