Poem for My Son After Receiving Stitches
A missed step and many tears later
I find myself holding a small boy
crumpled in my hands like a paper towel.
Under your chin a gash has opened,
allowing me to see what you’re made of—
me, the person who gave you life
as you try your unintentional best
to take it away. The body must heal
the fissure it has inherited, spackle itself
into place, all of those processes
you feel happening inside but can’t explain.
Yet all I can do is hold you, tell you
about the mythology of throbbing,
the body’s plight, tear and repair,
and how you are the needle, the thread,
holding me together.