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Posts Tagged ‘son’

 

 

My son and I lean together over the thin resistor,

the nine volt battery, the LEDs in blue and red.

 

We fuss with the copper tape as it twists and sticks

where we don’t want it to stick. But eventually,

 

there is light, a small blue light. He can’t stop looking

at the glow on the table. I can’t stop looking

 

at the glow in him. I remember so little

about how electricity works. Something

 

about electrons being pushed through the circuit.

Ours is simple, a series circuit, with only one way

 

for the electrons to go. But I know that no matter

how complex a circuit, the same laws of physics apply.

 

It’s like love. No matter how intricate the scenario,

the laws themselves are always the same.

 

There are two laws of love, I tell myself.

One: you can’t predict anything. And two,

 

it will change you. For good. I swear

as I stare at him now, I can feel the electrons

 

moving in my own body. Or are those tears,

twin currents following familiar paths.

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Fencing 101

 

 

 

It starts as tag. The instructor

tapes off a strip in the room—

the piste—and my son and I,

confined by the long bounds,

chase and reach for each other.

But the person who’s it

keeps changing. “Left,”

says the teacher, and I am it.

I lunge for my son’s arm, and

“Right,” says the teacher, and

I retreat as fast as I can,

my son now charging for me.

“Left.” “Right.” “Left.” “Right.”

We learn quickly to hold

our weight low, to keep

one foot forward, to allow

distance enough to tag

and not enough that we might

be tagged back.

The game is familiar. I flush

with young joy. Later

we learn to extend

our arms before we lunge,

to advance, to retreat,

to allow just the right distance

to strike, to not be struck.

The instructor gives us

a string to hold between us—

our goal is to keep the curve in it,

not to let it go too slack, too taught.

My son and I dance

forward and back, keeping

step with each other.

both of us smiling, both of us

serious as steel. When it’s done,

we shake what would be

our ungloved hands.

We have learned just enough

to know there’s so much more

to learn. As we leave, I feel

it still between us,

an invisible string, linking us

in this odd game of love,

the world our piste,

one hand always ready to battle,

the other hand, ever vulnerable,

ready to open, to reach,

to meet the other

with devastatingly effective

tenderness.

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One Wonder

 

 

 

the boy who fit in my lap

now taller than I—

an oak from a geranium seed

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This year for Mother’s Day, an offering of four poems published in Telluride Inside and Out–one for my mother, one for my son, one for my daughter (that invokes Mother Mary, too), and one about the day I quit motherhood.

Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers–especially my own. I love you, mom!

 

 

 

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Diagnosis

Mom, he says, what’s déjà vu?

The tone of his voice tells me

he’s worried about how I will answer.

I tell him, It’s when you think

you’ve experienced a moment before

when in fact the situation is new.

Oh, he says. Well, my friend

who’s parents are doctors

says he thinks that when

I fell off the top bunk last night

and landed on the concrete floor

I got the déjà vu. And Mom,

he’s going to be a doctor, too.

My son knits his fingers into knots

as he speaks. He looks fragile,

a bird with a broken wing.

I try hard not to laugh,

but not hard enough,

and the laughter spills

between us. You don’t have to worry,

I tell him. He is not convinced.

But Mom, he says, He told me

that was why I could fall on my head,

but it is my leg that hurts. And

he told me that’s why I might do

stupid things even if I’m really smart.

I take my son’s worry to heart. It feels familiar,

like an alley I’ve walked in before,

like a familiar room, like a voice

I have heard, like a remembered door.

My darling, I tell him, you’re fine.

And somewhere, perhaps,

in my rhinal nervous system,

a dysfunctional electric discharge

is sending a message to tell me

I’ve said this to him before.

You’re fine, I say, and unknit his hands.

Are you sure mom? he says,

knots his fingers again.

I think I’m the one with déjà vu,

I tell him. He stares hard at me,

concerned for us all.

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Accidental Baptism

“Mom,” he says, “come quick.”

He pulls me out on the porch

to stare at the three-quarters moon.

“Mom, don’t you think

it looks purple?”

He says it with such urgency,

such thrill. I can make out

the violet edge and hum

in agreement. For a minute,

we hold each other and stand

in marvelous attention.

The night grass is lit,

a touch of purple in it,

even the dirty socks on the lawn

seem rinsed with light.

There is a wholeness I sometimes

doubt. It’s easier to see

what is broken. But whatever

it is that is whole tonight

has always been whole.

I fall into it like an ocean.

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On the Eve

The night before he turns eleven

the boy cannot sleep. He is so alive.

He jumps on his bed and makes up songs

and can’t stop telling me how much

he loves me. Every day he becomes

more his own, which is to say less mine.

There was a time I heard every word

that he said. There was a time I could hold

his entire body in a single arm. But I was never

able to make everything okay with a kiss

or a song, no matter how much I wanted to.

What a perfect rehearsal for now when

his heart is already practicing how to break

at the cruelness of boys and the spite of girls

and the burn of wanting something you can’t have.

Still, I hold him, knowing it won’t make things all better,

hold him through the ache when he lets me.

And tonight I delight with him in his jumping

and singing until it is time for quiet.

The boy cannot sleep. He buzzes above his sheets.

His life is somehow too much for his body.

He can’t contain it all, despite that his legs

are so long, his reach so wide. And this love

I have for him, so much bigger now than it was

when he was smaller, how can that be? Walking out

the bedroom door, I feel a surge of love leaping out

of my chest, leaking from my eyes.

I don’t even try to hold it in.

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In the Current

I pin him, my boy,
on his back on the floor
in the late morning sun
in the quiet kitchen
and hold him there
in the warm orange light
beneath my weight
and threaten to tickle
his belly, his sides,
and I know that he knows
that if he says stop, I
will stop, but oh,
the sweetness of what if,
how it ripens in these seconds
right before the plunder
that doesn’t happen,
our eyes locked and bright,
the morning a boat
we delight in rocking,
knowing that even if it capsizes
we both know how to swim.

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Before Work

So Mom, he says, If you’re ever falling on a platform
toward the ocean, let’s say from the edge of the space, and
you’re falling so fast that the impact would kill you, here is what you do.

We are eating buttered bagels with jam. The small silver table
reflects the long slant rays of early morning sun. I take a bite,
and look at him with eyes that say, Go on.

Well just before you hit the waves, he says, you jump.
You have to get off the platform, because once in the air
you become your own force. And it still might hurt, but you’ll live.

I do not recall enough of physics to be certain he is right.
But it sounds as if it could be true. And I stare at him
until he stares back, his mouth rimmed with poppy seeds.

It’s possible that it could work on land, too, he says,
though chances are it would hurt a lot more.
I wonder when he learned to say things such as, “Chances are.”

I do not tell him I have fallen, fallen from the edge of known.
I do not tell him there was no platform for me to jump from.
I do not tell him I was scared.

I say, That is very good advice. I’ll remember that next time
I fall. And we eat our bagels in the morning sun. And I fall in love
with the boy, with forces I don’t understand, and with the feeling of falling

right through the sunlit room, right through the breakfast chair,
right through the platform that might someday save me.
The dust sparkles like surf in the air.

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While digging
in the garden rows,
my son looks up
from his work
of ripping apart a clump
of roots and says to me,
Mom, how could
anything ever go wrong
with this day,
and I think,
my darling,
you teach me
so beautifully.
There are days
we forget that life
will unfold for us
if we let it.
It’s not that nothing
could go wrong.
Of course it will.
But if we are not
the heroes of our
days, rather the narrators
who notice and relate
all the events,
whether cheerful or tragic,
with equal interest,
well then even
the wrong things
are right. As it is,
he does not step
barefoot on the hoe
with its spikes
turned up nor do I
hobble to the house
with a back too sore
to stand. And the day
unfolds as some days
do, with nearly nothing
to report except the
weather—warm,
some clouds, the sun
still gaining—and
a mother and son
got the planting done.
Nothing to show for it yet
except the smile on my face
and the dirt still under
his fingernails. But I have
to admit I am glad there was
nothing painful or difficult.
And on this day, my son
is the hero of the poem.
And I can watch his mother
typing out her joy as if
I am not the same woman.
Between these two view points,
there is a garden. I walk
its rows. I bring it water.
What grows is what will grow.

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