Leveler Poetry Journal
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While you are asleep on the couch

with our son cupped across your chest

half-moon reflection of you

I creep into the garage

to  steal one of your cigarettes;

it is spring now and in the warm air

I watch the paned stars fizz,

soda bubbles in an aluminum can.

Beside me, I see your shelf of tools and trinkets –

jagged rocks you’ve collected to show

our son when he is big–

the sun-white jaw of some furred animal,

one pointed tooth, that you found

in the woods and saved, He will like to see this


I imagine our son grown big, in love with

himself, a woman, discovery of hidden things.

I am reminded of his bones

and imagine their beautiful sadness

must mirror my own

as he, little wonder of breath and light

mirrors his father

bones asleep between us.

Athena Pangikas-Miller