Friday, February 12, 2021

Puberty

 It takes him away all at once.  


      Like a kidnapping.


One average day


     on a walk to school, 


 the love the child carries for you


     flushes out like milk                


from a leak in his thermos.  


The way that child looks at you 


     one evening over dinner 


is a look you have not seen before. 


     You can't be sure 


      you saw what you saw.  


The way that child speaks to you 


     is not the same tone, 


not like any previous tone.          


And for a long time, his sweet face                


    appears in your dreams on a


   poster pasted on power lines.  


 The new voice, new gaze sweeps 


     into every moment going forth.


Quiet as midnight,


     cool as that dark.      


All day I stroll with the dog in the Redwoods.    


No thoughts of him 


I raised from birth


     who now shaves his face,         


him I pampered and praised--perhaps too much 


     because, well, he was so                


beautiful,  


so tender in all God's ways, 


     and exiled into my life.     


When I return to the house,      


     it hails me again—


      the strange voice, that novel gaze


—that face-slapping loss.