ArchIVe
shop
contact
Robert Lopez
The History of the World Despite all, the baby born. The baby now a person. The baby breathing. The breaths shallow and rapid. The intake of oxygen almost negligible. The baby’s pulmonary function compromised, substandard.
The baby premature, undercooked. The baby recovering from the painful expulsion of birth. The baby nestled inside an incubator, hooked into machines, monitored for heart and respiration rate, for proof of life.
The baby is crimson-coloured. The baby is unwell.
The baby looks like it can’t possibly live another minute.
The baby runs a fever. The baby sweats. The baby is dehydrated.
The baby has a stiff neck and a pulled hamstring. The baby has arthritis in both hands and neuropathy in both feet.
The parents stand next to each other and look at the baby.
The one parent stretches a finger into a glove into the incubator so as to touch the baby, so as to hold hands with the baby. The other parent off to the side, reading a magazine article about the many abhorrent crimes of the current fascist regime.
The one parent says, I can’t believe this.
The other parent says, Maybe he’s faking it.
The one parent says, What did you say.
The baby assaulted by doctors and nurses and technicians. The baby’s insurance running out, something about a pre-existing condition, problems with the deductible.
A case manager visits the parents, says, We’ll aim to discharge the baby in a day or two unless other arrangements are made.
The one parent says, The baby is on life support.
The case manager says, I’m talking about what’s covered.
The baby ogled. The baby studied. The baby molested.
The baby, not even two days old, already another victim.
The baby curls miniature fingers around the gloved digit of the one parent. The baby has an earache, a headache, a backache. The baby craves cocaine. The baby twitches. The baby falls into REM sleep. The baby dreams of a forest, a beachhead. The one parent watches the baby sleeping, its eyes moving back and forth beneath the sockets. The baby is crimson-coloured. The baby resembles a burn victim or a white person emerging naked from a hot shower. The baby needs a skin graft. The baby writhes. The baby recalls a poem about tigers and red weather.
The one parent keeps vigil, calls friends on the phone, asks for advice, for comfort. The one parent posts on social media, pleads for prayers and money. The one parent invokes God, heaven and earth, the benevolence of angels.
The other parent drinks coffee, eats Danish, considers restoring their profile on dating applications.
The baby raises its hand as though to ask a question. The baby remembers a song its mother hummed. The baby dances frenetically.
The baby watches the television news with the sound off.
The parents look at each other as though to say, You are responsible for this. The parents look at each other and the look means, Your horrendous defective genes. The look means, This didn’t happen to either of my nephews.
Resentment building by the day.
The parents counselled by doctors and nurses and social workers. The parents supported by family, telling the parents to eat, to sleep. They bring food and blankets. They bring stuffed animals and get-well cards.
The one parent says, I’ll eat when my baby eats.
The other parent says, Should we name the baby now or wait?
The one parent says, Wait for what?
The baby in the one parent’s arms. The baby swaddled. The baby cold and then hot and then cold and then hungry and nauseated and unable to take in nutrients. The baby soiling itself. The baby starving. The baby withering. The baby keeps its eyes tight shut.
Before That
The baby before birth. The baby an embryo. The baby a foetus. The baby on life support. The baby fed through a tube. The baby tethered. The baby a prisoner.
The baby claustrophobic, dreaming of a verdant meadow, a roiling ocean, a snow-capped mountain range disappearing into a blue horizon.
The baby growing, joints aching. The baby running laps counterclockwise, swimming up to two miles a day, and biking mountainous terrain to prepare for the next triathlon.
The baby drowning. Amniotic fluid filling undeveloped lungs. The baby disgusted by the acrid taste, a mix of sour milk and lemon juice.
The baby rapturous. The baby high on tractor fluid and decongestant. The baby dizzy from standing on its head. The baby experiencing vertigo when the mother is in motion. The baby bored out of its gelatinous mind.
The baby vandalising the walls of its cell. The graffiti resembles hieroglyphs. The hieroglyphs say, Kilroy Was Here.
The baby plays games of kickball and jacks. The baby plays solitaire on its cell phone. The baby places an advertisement on Craigslist.
The baby plants land mines. The baby contemplates a counter-offensive. The baby plans an escape. The baby digs three tunnels, names them Manny, Moe, and Jack.
The baby stuck. The baby ubicated. The baby gives the obstetrician the finger. The baby reads Nietzsche and Kierkegaard. The baby drops out of school, joins a commune. The baby sleeps late, calls in sick. The baby watches bad television. The baby eats junk food.
The baby dreads its coming birth.
Before That
The baby before birth. The baby sexless. The baby nonbinary. The baby doesn’t shave or shower or maintain oral hygiene. The baby doesn’t watch sports on television. The baby doesn’t have brunch with friends on weekends.
The baby wears flannel shirts and baggy trousers.
Before That
The baby as idea, as concept. They baby as hypothetical. The baby as way to fill the void. The baby to quell pressure, familial and societal. The baby as biological imperative. The baby as means to the end. The baby as last-ditch attempt. The baby as legacy. The baby as birthright. The baby as conversation piece. The baby as substitute. The baby as be all and end. The baby as afterthought.
Before That
The parents before the baby. The man sleepwalking through weeks and months and years. The man a robot. The man a child. The man failing at endeavors both personal and professional. The man doesn’t know what he wants, other than financial remuneration, higher salary, stock portfolio. He wants a car and he wants a house and he wants a boat and then he wants a summer house on the lake to drive the boat on and host cookouts on long weekends.
The woman works at a university. The woman earns a good salary, spends time with friends, travels. She travels with friends and family and travels by herself. She has been to most of the continents on Earth, including Europe and South America and Asia and Africa. She hasn’t been to Australia because it’s too far away and she hasn’t been to Antarctica because it doesn’t count.
She has climbed mountains, suffered from altitude sickness.
The woman falling apart. The woman barely maintaining mental and emotional health. The woman reads self-help books, joins social groups to make friends, attract lovers.
The woman makes bad choices. The woman recognises the pattern and resolves to break it. The woman fails over and again. The woman regrets every decision.
The man meets the woman. They both swipe on each other on their cell phones and they meet for a drink and then for dinner and then for sex and then they are moved in with each other.
Then years pass and they work and travel and argue and threaten each other and they talk about a family and the woman wants this more than anything and the man says I want it too but he is ambivalent and frightened but because he is the kind of man to go along with whatever anyone else wants he finds himself having sex with the woman now that she’s off the pill and she’s ovulating and the time to have a baby is now as she is rapidly approaching an age when it’ll be termed a geriatric pregnancy and who wants to go through that so they begin the sex ritual and he is barely able to achieve an erection because he is petrified and he’s never had sex with the purpose of making a human person but finally he is having this kind of sex and he’s afraid of losing his erection and he’s not sure he’ll be able to finish so he thinks about his colleague at work with the chipped nail polish on her fingers and toes and before long there’s a baby in a glass tube, in a hospital ward, here on planet Earth, surrounded by strangers, fighting for what seems to be its life
.back