Ode to my lil' zygote

Dedication to a being to become April 17, 2015

You don't even have a name
You don't even have a sex,
So far as I can guess;
You're the size of a green olive,
An ugly alien being of me,
But not a spitting image, just yet;
You're a human specimen, at best.
I imagine you splitting now
After a frenetic, zygotic tryst,
Just growin'
Sown from my spilt seed,
And her egg that descended in heat.
You swam upstream, risking all,
To frisk an ova named Postawova
That fled her imprisonment --
A rolling stone,
Which jailbroke her fallopian,
Gathering no clover
And shooting no opium.
I speculate on the scene below,
Whether you're comfortable or not
In utero,
Or in need of a hand --
How are ya doin' in there?
If you need anything, I'm your man!
Next stop is your ABCs,
Then I'm passing you off
To a metaphysical world, by God!
When you grow up, perchance
You can persuade them of
Their miraculous odds,
Or their murderous goverments.
Though you've left me astonished
And convinced,
I did not.