Passing
This morning, I walked by the open bathroom door
and saw my naked son peeing. He said “good morning”
in this tiny space of time remaining
where the lines we can cross with each other
are few enough to fit in my fist.
Every day I make a quiet list of things I’ll miss
when he shuts the door.
Combing out his tangled curls.
His hand reaching across a couch cushion for mine.
The increasing weight of his head on my thigh as he falls asleep.
Last night, my fingers on his earlobe,
I remembered childhood is the shortest
of our epochs. I will spend most of my life
knowing him as an adult wrapped tight
in a life of his own making.
Winter Terrarium in a Walmart Parking Lot
The pavement is pocketed
with mini birdbaths of ice
glittering like scratched CDs
forever muted.
A pickup truck unrolls its window
so two fingers can snap a cigarette
through the air, its lit end the orange
sun setting into a landfill.
Cars fold into parking spots
and a raven splits his glare
between their jerky halts and
edible litter.
I slide a jar over him,
squish him flat between
my palms and feed him into me
like a floppy disk
along with all the other
bits of life I’ve saved
to paper my inner walls.
I’m cultivating a terrarium of
sadness, growing a message
in a bottle, down which all
the rivers are too dried up
or plastic-choked to send.