The inspiration for this poem is a streaky, grainy image: my grandson in utero. His portrait took over a piece of prime real estate on the refrigerator door. Week by week, he came to inhabit the poem and the poem came to express him. The mineral curve of his backbone gave the poem its structure. Contrasting lights and darks, pools and masses suggested liquid, mysterious expanses. I free-wheeled sounds, worked the verbs, and benefited from astute editorial advice from friends, colleagues, and the editors at The Westchester Review.