Reason #1,324,789 of why I love this show.
This was a casual side conversation between Bashir and Sisko about a fellow crew member, completely unrelated to the episode’s plot, and its just so sweet.
It’s nice to know that if you’re a pregnant father-to-be on DS9, your buddies Julian and Miles will build you a hatchling pond, buy you baby clothes, and throw you a shower eagerly attended by the station’s commanding officer (who was practically beaming with joy when he found out that you were expecting).
And they speak of it so casually with no judgement! Love this!
OH MY GOD. I DID NOT KNOW THIS.
Vilix’pran gets mentioned a couple more times on the show, and we find out that:
A) he buds twice more, and had quadruplets during his second budding and an unspecified number for his third, bringing the total number of babies to between eight and 18
B) Kira says she’ll have to assign him bigger quarters after the third budding
C) and the babies have wings that can get tangled up with each other when they play together
D) AND ALSO that Vilix’pran gets promoted from Ensign to Lieutenant (so clearly Starfleet has some rockin’ maternity/paternity policies and thus parenthood is not an obstacle to career advancement)
The more you know. :D
Well that got exponentially more adorable and awesome quickly.
He told us to paint stories on our robes so we did
Raphael stole the setting sun to use as paint
Jesus was supposed to be in every picture,
he is his son, but we chose to paint Mary sometimes
kneeling her in a cabbage patch soft under knee.
We plucked feathers from flamingos
(although Raphael preferred the parrots and peacocks)
and wove them together to create wings
that rippled in the setting light of the sun.
She was against the bed when we crept in
I whispered to Raphael, telling him to leave her praying
"Saint Bride must stay religious, the way he wants her."
We carried her from the Celts, undoing the knots woven in her hair
letting it cascade into the breeze and around our toes
occasionally getting caught in her cold palms
solitary pressed together in the ocean breeze.
We carried her through eras
pulling her through pages of the bible
the words we poured through crumbled behind us
She got to see the birth of Christ, our saviour, our lord
and see the beauty of his eyes.
He told her she was special, a Pagan-Christian with a slave past
one that would re-write the course of time.
She let us carry her back across the ocean, Raphael was worried
we would drop her into the pith below,
but I, Gabriel, bearer of news, gently left her alone in her bed.
He Had The Artist’s Touch
At nine years old my dad painted space
using nothing but a tin of glow in the dark paint
and a drying paintbrush stolen from a wall
in the summer heat, the bricks turning the bristles crisp.
It took him ten years of my life to finish
the solar system taking up the whole of my back lawn
lining the sky with planet rings
and forbidden stars.
He bought a ride on an aeroplane, soaring
high up and gliding over our garden -
he waited on the clouds for hours, watching
the sky fall black with tinted lashes.
Arms open on the tenth year, he saw it glow
up from beneath the trampoline, the greenhouse
the corners of the moth eaten vegetable patch
and he saw every constellation he’d ever painted -
each one, old and new. He stole glances at Saturn
and Neptune and Mars, the 63 moons of Jupiter.
His grass stained stars reflecting on the back of his skin
drawing patterns on his pupil’s.
And at nineteen years old I saw space swallow him
whole, slowly raising the powder of night over his body
and pulled their arms over his shoulders
letting space steal the universe’s wrapped in his brain.
Each Spring Mia’s blossom tree swallows her whole
filling her with ripened pink saplings
when she smiles her tongue turns lush with petals
the corners of the skin crumbling in her mouth - eroding
her innocence, changing her face and making it blossom
with hope of new life
Each year Mia’s blossom tree falls away into itself
scattering the grass with peachy buds
planting roots within the ground for years to come
pattering her toes with tattoos of veined branches
and five leafed cherry sycamores
and each year the tattoos fade over summer
falling like her blossoms and falling into the wind.
Cats greet me, they smile
and rub themselves against my legs
winding flowers around me
using their tails alike,
they crease my trousers with hair
try to shower me
with hairy kisses.
Their tails balancing
themselves on my foot
paws pressing my toes
with grace I wish I required
they steal my smiles
saying, “Good morning,
without looking in my eyes
hoping to stay longer.