one poem by Jacob Schepers

A Snippet from Vasectomajestic

// [16 July 2024]

Anoint me

heir apparent

to the Enfant Terrible,

phenotypical stock

of overflowing

disclosure, going

infamously candid here, being

dangerously sterile now. And yet

it’s lucky

number 13 in anniversaries

today, which means gifts

of lace, which seems cruel

seeing how

lacewings don’t last

more than a day. Maybe

fitting. Just us

and the babies this week,

romancing googly eyes

among coos and ga-gas,

the older two off

and away on vacation

with the grands,

my folks kindly footing

the bill,

seeing how

money’s a bit tight

and FMLA’s a joke

and COBRA’s a nonstarter

for postpartum care,

for neonatal well-being

for the preemie stripe

unless the stars align

exactly right off

a touch-and-go

cross-your-fingers

delivery. Made a different go

in the week we have,

trying out

potty training, picking up

all rugs from the hardwood

and covering exposed

sections of carpet

while teaching Number 3

the ins and outs

of going

numbers 1 and 2. Over

the long weekend, she home

from work, we paired

off: one

snuggling up

with the littlest, one tackling

the rascal earning his keep

at keeping us spry. O weekend!

O tender

mercies! Tuesday now, and Daddy

flying solo on his summer

break. Sans diaper, this boy

and his throne

at the ready,

me at home, the waiting

attendant piss-wiper, vassal

to his lordship. Me, emptier

of chamber pots! Me, ember

of dying dignity! Even so,

a mild success, but may call it

on account of timing,

of preparation, readiness,

of gentle parenting

which I do believe in

and practice

to the best

of my ability. As far

as children are concerned,

all the world’s a phase

especially for this sad sack,

especially when it comes

to parenting,

to partnering

with the best of them,

the very best,

for richer or poorer

through sickness

through health,

to fathering up

to snuff

by following

her lead, ever capable,

ever on time, beat, when I

stumble with my two

left feet. And it’s our anniversary

after all

and likely

against all odds.

So I lace this love song

into a lattice of language

I cover in an egg wash,

drape over my meat-

and-duxelle-and-puff-

pastried entrée, an offering

of competence in cookery,

in husbandry un-

bestial and un-

chained from its baser

roots of management: I’ve learned

my life has become

unmanageable in a hard spell,

rough and dry, a daily

habit I can never

master. Nonetheless:

what I’ve got! O highest

echelon of humble

storehouses, O effusive

embarrassment of riches

amid the thrice-burned

and oft-burdened

millennial struggle. Each time

she uncovers

this page I imagine her face

blushing, blooming. Reminds me

of our nuptials, she confessing

how she blocked out the vows

I wrote when I spoke

them to avoid

melting into a pool, mascara

streaming, resplendence

intact. Never

so honored

to be deliberately unheard,

being left

on read

while in the flesh. After

the fact, she did consume

my words, went so far

as to tattoo

the refrain I used

on her arm. It’s there

now! Still! Come

hell or high

water, rough waters

ahead, but this ink

refuses

to run, even when

coming home

to accidental puddles

from bad

aim or timing,

so palpable

this marital encomium,

this momentary grace

done up in lace.