Thursday, September 15, 2011

A poem for my first born

Because he is 8 hours away.  Because we will not be together for his birthday for the first time in his life.  Because I miss him.  Because I am thinking of him. Because I am proud of him.  Because I love him.

Unsealing the Records

When you were born blue
eyes owl round, dark downed
there was no one to ask if loss
too was passed through placenta and blood.
Sixteen now, when you meet my gaze, looking
glass familiar, no relative
wonders who you take after. Born
on your grandmother's birthday, one more
gift for a woman terrified of too much
fortune. I was far younger than you
when I learned some questions were weapons
even in the right hands. How words
could be strung on a necklace
or garrote. I swear there is nothing
you could say as sharp or shameful
as silence. I am here.
Ask me anything.

--ljcohen, April 2010

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