sticks to burn, stars to count
Let me remember his nine-year-old body in my arms, weightless,
when for once, the Atlantic is gentle, and if not for the smell of salt,
this could be Huron, and they could all be behind me:
all my blood mothers in the sand dunes, my lost sect
of hands-on-hips shore callers scanning the shoreline,
looking for their sons. On release, I watch him swirl hands in the sand
to cast spells, and wonder what mutations
have taken place in this year of alone, if he knows
how attuned I am to every one of his vibrations,
how I’m
watching as he unearths potatoes and asks to run
through the mustard fields; I’m
watching as he breaks through snow-pea vines
and spruce hedges, I’m
watching as he takes rest by the dog grave
by the lilies; I’m
crying when he asks
for more sticks to burn, more stars to count
because I cannot speak, because I’m
the only one here
who is so afraid outside.