The Death of Gabriel

by Laura Eppinger

One day we’d have a son, we said.
Not now,
we said, now
when we go through a ten-pack a day and can’t leave
the house without sparking a joint.
But one day we’ll
settle, we’ll
calm down and make a baby.
Dominant
genes would give him brown skin,
dimples and a raging
temper.
He’ll be our tyrant,
our doll, our prince.
We’ll name him
Gabriel
after my favorite author.
But we never calmed, could never
settle.
And Gabriel can never be
born, though I know
he exists
somewhere.
He lives in Macondo,
maybe, or on a steamboat
that never anchors.