When I Am Not Thinking of My Father
And whether
he has a gun
to his head,
I am thinking
of driving you home
from the hospital —
stopping at a yellow,
refusing to turn
on a red,
our three-month old
Baby on Board!
sticker finally
come true:
our newborn
beside you
in the back seat,
manger of light
in the mirror.
GOING HOME
Mary tells us to cherish every inch
of you, from the bruise
the vacuum left to the toes
I count twice, and maybe it’s fear
that has us weeping
in the doorway, maybe
it's joy — your life
in our hands now
no one else's as we smile
for the photograph, our first
as a family, then hurry
to the car, a virus
on the loose and the sky
so thick with wildfire smoke
it's a miracle we make it
home, our neighbors
watching from their
windows as we whisk
you in, brushing ash
like snow from your blanket.
Skin to Skin
After nursing
you're handed off
to me — Dad, Daddy,
Papa, the name we've yet
to settle on —
and this morning
my skin on yours
puts you right to sleep.
Or, my skin’s
a decent enough replica
to keep you sleeping,
milk balming
your lips.
In the first dream
I have about you
I leave the station
alone, checking my pockets
as if you're a wallet
or phone. Your wail
in the distance,
my heart's four
alarm system
going off.
How can I blame you
then or now
for clinging
to your mother's
warmth, unceasing
light? This morning
after nursing
she hands you off,
sleeping, to me,
your skin on mine
inconceivable
to the city kid
I once was: my parents
having it out
in their bedroom,
my sister's soon
to be jailed
boyfriend climbing
the fire escape
to hers.
