2011-09-22T20:41:32-07:00September 22nd, 2011|Parenthood, Relationships|

The shovel

She digs for dinosaur bones
in the sand with her son.

My own son walks over to them
arms outstretched
determined mouth
pats the boy’s head and face
like a blind man
then takes his shovel
with breezy

It is obvious to him 
that all the shovels in the world
are simply waiting
for him to claim them
for a short period
of devotion.

The boys engage
in an awkward discourse
of no words
and the brimming collision
of desire.

I should say
a motherly thing

that’s not yours sweetheart
give the boy a turn with his shovel please

but I don’t feel like wearing
the voice of a trainer
in that moment
in the rain
and so instead
I tell the mother
of the boy
with the shovel
that her hair is the exact colour
of sycamore leaves
when they first feel the scrape
of autumn air.

She is quiet
and then asks me if I knew
that most dinosaurs
were vegetarians.

I look over
the boys have abandoned 
the dilemma
of shovel ownership
and are digging
with their little
bare hands.

The rain drops are getting fatter
I smile
what a gift
to be understood.

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