2012-11-16T09:16:53-08:00November 16th, 2012|Parenthood|

Brief episodes of death

Your face is red
with the urgent fire
of not being able to breathe

I sit with you in the quiet hole of night
and I realize
the term throw up
is too breezy

like tossing leaves into the sky
like playing catch
like fathers flinging sons
into the pool

I rub your back
and you look at me every time
the earth quakes inside of you
that violent rejection of gravity
your eyes asking me
clear and scared

am I doing it right, mama
enduring these brief episodes of death

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