Monday, January 5, 2015

The Send-off

I am not garlanded 
by curbside gathering

to marvel at newness
on this first night.

My deflated belly having sufficed 
as incubation where balmy dusk 

ascends. Your carbon copy, 
my exhaustion, the once impossible 

smallness of bodies containing life, 
now teeth filled and hair topped.

There is no tentative backside of
a 7-year old's forefinger against 

your four-day old cheek, enrapt
as hushed shapes 'so soft’ are made.

She does not graze pad-side
of same index against your knee

in awe of its scab formation.
and say 'How wonderful

your capacity is for  
healing now little boy!’ 

Clutching a red piece of Disney 
branded wheel-bound plastic

for you, I take vague leave
of space you first entered 

from womb into, quietly,
and do not return tomorrow

to heap too much syrup
on half moon pancakes. 

The neighbors don’t so much
notice these days. For in their world

now we are as commonplace
as the furniture that will be

left behind. 

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