no quick fix

Too small, he moved too much,

each leaving wound

a spring tight in his chest,

hair-trigger snares 

like nightshade sown

into a fruited soul.

Then he turned five

and sprung a leak,

unwinding wounds we

hoped were healed,

now tripped and spilling

purple down his shirt.

We keep him still,

or try, by clumsy hand

to mind and tend

the tender places,

blindly pressing 

band-aids over broken bones.