Breadcrumb #668

BRITTANY OBER

My unborn son likes to kick inside me.
This week I took him to MoMA’s screening
of Raging Bull, and I was moved by the manly
beauty of De Niro’s boyish fragility. Isn’t
every man like that: all mouth and swagger
and shiny new car, when, really, inside he just
wants a woman to hold him close, pressed to her
bosom so he can hear her heart beat,
beating only because she can watch him
move? Will my son punch and shadow box
his need into haunting nothing; will he mask
himself with bloodshot eyes and busted teeth? 
Can I ever tell him I suspect I’m an American
new wave hero, too, or will he discount
me because I’m just his mom?

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