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.

to ethiopia with love

I rip the envelope
in the Walgreens parking lot,
flip through each photo
first quickly, then again
taking my time
while the van idles, until
the kids get restless
and it's time to move on.

I drive home distracted,
trying to see each image
through your eyes:
how will it feel to see
the child you lost at home
with me? He smiles.
Will you?

Tomorrow I will send them,
these frozen moments --
a birthday dinner,
his preschool portrait,
the first soccer game (he
scored three goals).
A month from now,
maybe two,
an old friend will walk
down a long red road,
greet you with three kisses,
and hand you a package.

You will see his face,
and yours, and ours.
I can't pretend to know
what you will feel;
I only pray you know
our love is for you too.

from a photo

Who are you
who held my son
and holds him still
in bloodline, hairline,
though not timeline,
who are you?
You are not past
tense, past life,
past knowing nor
being known,
you are now.
But you are there.
Being here, there are
a million miles
of concrete and ocean,
culture and option
between us.
Between us, a little boy.
Here,
and there - in you still.
You are who
I am too.

bonding dance

It was never a fight,
you against me,
but I fought like mad
for you,
or so I thought.
And learned by bruises
not to battle love
into existence,
ex nihilo:
we both lost.
Now then, a new way:
like boxers in a
ballet class,
we bob and weave
just out of habit
while the teacher
sings out "Grace!"