Bones
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
someday.
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 |
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