a poet to her son
the holy thrumming of the fan
in our bedroom is chanting your
lullaby in protective undertones.
I am cozy, staring into the poised
bassinet that will hold you just less
than cocooned to me in ten short weeks.
I practice knowing the smell of you,
I stay up later than I’m barely able just
to shake hands with the exhaustion
we’ll happily lend a room to.
and you – you are practicing self defense
beneath my flesh; to you, the only world there is.
I could make tiny wishes that you’d some day
tell me what my heartbeat sounds like from the inside:
glass-smooth jazz, a jagged pop beat?
I like to imagine my writer’s heart
beats like the honey of a romance novel,
appreciating with intensity every soft thump of life.
I question that you’ll read my work
(hold it high as Hamlet held…
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