he's an angry sort of being
the moment he was born
his blood fought with mine
he stayed in a box, oxygen flowed to him
an influx of blood kept him
he bit and it hurt - it hurt
more when he didn't speak
didn't walk didn't do any
of the things we imagined
no tee ball, no play dates
no laughter or wants it all
he hurt
he is older now - a boy
turning man and it hurts
no dances, no football
no friends: imagination
his gift.
tons of bouncing, tons
of words scripted in part
tons of fights, a few bites
an echo of a life i had
dreamed - perhaps next
poem will not hurt so much
perhaps