No May will be the same, perched with
legs barely pretzeled against round earth belly;
I am waiting for your glorious arrival, curtained in sweat
and sighs of relief and tears like spring showers growing life.
But there is something else there too, wondering
if grief and blinding love could link arms for an
evening on the edge of my hospital bed.
I wonder if you’ll arrive on the day he
was born, wrapped in some form of him.
I wonder if I’ll know it (in the shape of your eyes)
in the way your small mouth might curve unknowingly
like it is full of all his stories, like it is screaming I’m near.
Maybe he’ll take every strength he wished
he’d had and place it in your hands and feet,
maybe when I hold you I’ll be holding him too.
At night I rest my head on quiet thoughts
of him here, just as flesh and blood as you
are flesh and blood, just as warm, and in
delicate pockets of time he is asking to be
the one to sing you to sleep.