At lunch, I drift away. My thoughts
curl to the spring of commencement.
Your belly struck out in front
of you like force-fed evidence
of your love and sex and rebellion.
This is my corner of the world,
you once told me, placing my fingers
over the then non-violent curve
of growth inside you. I joked
about melons, and basketballs,
and the size you'd be just before
you'd deliver. You'd be full
with your potential. Then,
you told me you weren't afraid
of staying here your whole life--
two point eight miles north of our
middle school, where you ran track,
where you ran to escape home
and barely brought back Cs.

Eleven years later, I've earned
space in another city,
seven-hundred-and-fifty-three miles
from our middle school. Now,
between aperitif and entree, I wonder
if I'm far enough away, after all,
from our book-end dead-end streets,
because you've sent to me
pictures of a tow-haired boy
I held, as a baby. Do you remember?
If this is you, please write back.
Studying the picture, I am amazed by your son;
that he is the sum of years between
then and now; that there is nothing violent
about how he fits you there.

06/06/2006

Posted on 06/06/2006
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