(no subject)
I was feeling playful and hypothetical.
"untitled"
The baby was not written into the master plan.
But he fits in the cloth sling, warm on my chest,
as I walk down toward the monks in Cambodia.
He falls asleep in all fifty states, across oceans and
overlooking forest canopies, and when he wants to be
the third night owl, we drive him to sleep.
Or his father, wearing his leather jacket,
lays him vertical on one shoulder and sings
the way my father did with me.
Later, both sons curl in the back seat like cats.
whether their parents are any good, I couldn’t say,
but the boys make a masterpiece of brotherhood.
I carry them until they’re too heavy, too big.
As to why there are no matching rings
and why my own last name, why no sloppy kisses to make them groan,
they don’t care. Sometimes, we park in empty lots or desert,
and they smile from the trunk top, watching
their father and I dance.
"untitled"
he comes into the dark, bare feet and pajamas,
standing on my side of the bed. i swipe my hand under one eye because jesus,
what kind of woman cries in front of her five-year-old?
"mommy," he says. "why are you sad?"
i reach out and touch his face.
"get in," i say.
he fastens one arm over me, and i think,
it feels just like his father.
"he'll come back," my son says.
this time, it wasn't a screaming fight; we don't scream that often.
we don't fight that often.
but when we do, it's enough
to scare me.
"how do you know?" i say.
"he loves you too much."
son knows father well.
haiku
"mother" did not jive
with the identity I
had wanted. oh, well.
little boots, big boots.
the kid had begged for his own.
money's no object, hell.
"I wanted a cat,"
I say one night, round belly.
"Too late," he says back.
suicide is out.
this becomes apparent when
the kid wants a hug.
"untitled"
The baby was not written into the master plan.
But he fits in the cloth sling, warm on my chest,
as I walk down toward the monks in Cambodia.
He falls asleep in all fifty states, across oceans and
overlooking forest canopies, and when he wants to be
the third night owl, we drive him to sleep.
Or his father, wearing his leather jacket,
lays him vertical on one shoulder and sings
the way my father did with me.
Later, both sons curl in the back seat like cats.
whether their parents are any good, I couldn’t say,
but the boys make a masterpiece of brotherhood.
I carry them until they’re too heavy, too big.
As to why there are no matching rings
and why my own last name, why no sloppy kisses to make them groan,
they don’t care. Sometimes, we park in empty lots or desert,
and they smile from the trunk top, watching
their father and I dance.
"untitled"
he comes into the dark, bare feet and pajamas,
standing on my side of the bed. i swipe my hand under one eye because jesus,
what kind of woman cries in front of her five-year-old?
"mommy," he says. "why are you sad?"
i reach out and touch his face.
"get in," i say.
he fastens one arm over me, and i think,
it feels just like his father.
"he'll come back," my son says.
this time, it wasn't a screaming fight; we don't scream that often.
we don't fight that often.
but when we do, it's enough
to scare me.
"how do you know?" i say.
"he loves you too much."
son knows father well.
haiku
"mother" did not jive
with the identity I
had wanted. oh, well.
little boots, big boots.
the kid had begged for his own.
money's no object, hell.
"I wanted a cat,"
I say one night, round belly.
"Too late," he says back.
suicide is out.
this becomes apparent when
the kid wants a hug.