My Son

My son is dangerous.
Brown messy boy hair.
Eyes just like mine.
Perfect nose somehow.

Twelve year old hands.
Jeans hanging loose.
Shoulders already broad.
Shoes but no socks (of course).

Lives life in fun.
Not weighted with worry.
Sees his path well lit.
Laughs as he starts off.

How can a mother explain.
Love that goes straight through?
Joy and fear hold hands.
"One day you'll understand."

Bond like I never had.
Too many photographs.
Memories sweet and happy.
My son is dangerous.

Intent

I am dripping with intent.
So eager to mean something.
Quietly screaming my own name.
Lying perfectly still in wait.
Something is supposed to happen.
Nervous energy wishes itself away.
A lot of things have already happened.
You may have seen me different.
I cannot be held responsible for this.

Childhood

When a child
strawberry-faced 
and dirty
barefoot toed
kicked past the concrete
slab out back called home
dirt dug deep
to look for treasures 
buried there
telephone lines
on the ground
from a storm
and the dirt is mud
is like
"here's mud in your eye"
of the future
children can't see
waiting up ahead
is more dirt
more buried treasure
buried too deep
for this
still strawberry-faced
now
seeds of forgiveness 
in her mouth
child in 2010
born 1959