by Lisa Zaran
All day the small boy I love enters manhood.
Grows muscles. Outlives the burdens of drugs and
heartbreak. Soon he will outlive the birds, outlive the
limbs supporting the birds, outlive me, his mother, a
storm-worn dove. The small boy I love, wrung from
silence, finds his own voice. Sings from his own self
the transparencies of others with the candor of a child
beyond the miseries of adulthood. The small boy I love
arches the hours, speaks in rivulets sparkling gold and
silver. Every ordinary morning, the small boy I love
leaves like a train departing a station. The poem I write
reads like a mother, frantic and theatrical, white scarf
waving in the open air.
Last updated October 29, 2012