Saturday, April 16, 2011

Jack


From the beginning


your hands moved with the instinct


of the second born son,


first banging on me from the inside,


so I wouldn't forget you were coming.


Then reaching out in welcome,


like happy baseball mitts, clapping.


Or balled up into fists,


pushing hard against me,


while simultaneously


insisting,


on sleeping right beside me.


Your hands took no prisoners,


even in peekaboo,


but always pointed just in time


to the full blue pools of your eyes,


or the perfect curve of your dimples--


smart hands!


And they felt so right


resting in mine,


but too often I had to drag them from behind--


the plight of the second child:


never enough sleep,


never enough time.


But now your grown hands strum your guitar,


and I can't remember the last time


your hands reached



for me.


But I want you to know


that you have always had me


head over heels,


out of my mind


in love.


My hands


will always miss yours


wanting mine.






6 comments:

  1. Perfect, just perfect. This will play on my heart strings all day long.

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  2. What a beautiful poem, Erin. The ending ties it up so nicely.

    Pamela

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  3. I know of what you speak, Erin . . . so beautiful!

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  4. Erin, this is lovely. I think you captured him well; I thought of my second son through the whole thing. It was as if you wrote it about him - and predicted his future.

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  5. Jeanne...aw...thank you.
    Flaubert-glad you think so. It's so hard to write a poem about one's kid that isn't over the top sappy.
    Kathleen--I know you do. xoxo
    Mr. Walker--thank you. That is a wonderful compliment!

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  6. I love the way you write about your kids. This is beautiful.

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