Sons

Male of Elizabeth

for my sons, and my grandson, not-yet-born

I wake in the morning
his voice in my body
a language I can’t follow
a crescendo, a leaky instrument

he was a boy with a voice
that betrayed him
a sharp blade
for an Adam’s apple and words
that hit the window like sleet

he left me remembering
the quiet thrum of rain
the day he was born
the blade that saved him
after a dive to grab his waving arms

I still tread
in that water and blood
of the child who was named
male of Elizabeth
the patchwork of our bodies
living, breathing
speaking broken languages

photo by Sally Mann

of a god and love
for Paul
July 9th, 2008

they cradled you into the car
wrapped in a white flannel blanket
a few last sprigs of red
hair feathered upward

before you left home
pale kisses
from your brother
missed your cheek

I left out my goodbye
crawled onto the rear seat
my books sliding to the floor
you shuddered, Mother shouted

rain, the bees coming in
could kill you
in arms that couldn’t clutch
you tight enough

I thought you were arguing
yourself alive
for just those moments
while I left you

the last things I remember:
your thin arms
reaching for me
and one long sound
a moan rising

was it me
watching from the sidewalk
as Father drove
you on?

alone, in your cortege
I remember
what we sang:


love
I’ll always love you

but enough of love now

eap