(Oh boy I start this month of a poem a day with no confidence, trying to get everything ready for our trip to San Francisco tomorrow while holding a boy who seems to not feel well, he hasn’t slept all day and he spits up a lot of what I feed him. But no one said it had to be a good poem. So I worked on this mostly while watching Rosie’s water polo game while Henry sat angelically on Steve’s lap. That setting might explain the water. Yikes I feel naked.)
Sight
A boy and water,
I thought I would know what he looked like.
Swish, swish swish.
He’s out forever. Eyelids pressed to milk skin.
In a room of babies I don’t know if I’d recognize myself.
The lights were bright.
Photographs don’t tell what I see:
this looking into a white sky.
See, it’s better to be out because you can see.
There is no such thing as ecstasy,
but out, out. I was gone for an hour,
emptied as snow tilted in the snow globe of my head.
The echo of our lungs in here. My throat hoarse, my baby.
I don’t know which boy is mine.
Too much love makes form unclear.
Our lives near-sighted,
unswelling, eyelids closing again.
