I've been lucky—March is over
and my son is still alive. My daughter
is about to crawl. And the golden
sunset light recalls easy bygone feelings.
I feed my son while he sleeps
through a hole in his tummy
when the night nurse has the night off.
When I go to the mirror it's to see
if the ocean-eyed man the teenager
I was had hoped to become
is anywhere in there. The teenager is;
he wants you to see him, help him,
tell him he's strong and beautifully
dramatic. He wants
to be part of the story, even
if it's not a true one. He wants
to fuck like mad, even if
I don't. Standing over my son
at night I feel quiet, only then,
no need to be me or anyone,
just listening to him breathe,
as if life could be divided
into breath and waiting
for the next breath, because
of the calm in the troughs
between. I wanted
to show you I could see the world
without me in the way; I can't,
even for a little while. I'm beside
that man watching over his son,
impressed with him and his humility.
But if that's what it takes,
to keep my son safe—admiring
my better self rather than
being him—then ok. That's ok.
