You, dear Brenda, are at home
with our son, whose remarkable
days have him laughing
like any kid he isn’t. When
we made him out of the wish
to make him, we knew nothing
except our own parents couldn’t be
close or far enough.
Our son can’t run, which may
be our fault, we’ll never know,
like sitting on separate daggers.
Love is the need to escape
the beloved, isn’t it? So you can
pretend you can’t cause any pain?
It’s a mutation of guilt, isn’t it?
I hide beneath sheets, close
to your belly, and apologize
—to you, to my mother, to our son,
to motherhood and fatherhood,
to all those now fleeing
what they love. It’s grotesque,
but I will cough something up,
a bloody string of self, to tie
you to me, me to him, him to you,
then we can all go our ways,
separate or not, or nowhere, and pluck
that string, feel each other
tensing, teasing the other end.
You may not understand—I don’t
either—but someday we might:
Someday shines on families like light.
Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2012
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.