origins

Silent lines curved back over silence, seeking
the shape of his face. I waited.
His small body's weight warmed and coaxed
by my blood's low, incubative bulbs, lulling
his passages from dreams to other sleeping rhythms held
within my haunted womb; it's salted tides
never forgetting where we came from.
I carried the sea, and he,
he was the shore in me, smoothed
by distance ~ by distance made dear.
Strange, intimate stranger; his face, the place where
myths come true.

His voice now, independent; buoyed bravely across breath.
In mystery entangled, that I might translate
those rhythms risen in him; imbued by his vision. Such wide
angel-gazing eyes staring clean through
non-existent corners to places where even breezes can't
or will not venture. His lilting lexicon left there; suspended
within the secret lives of shadows. Listen.
I will. And ask that he dictate his dreams toward
my proud plagiary. Where once I cited
unusual angels wrestling through my depths, it was him.
His lyrics, all along.
It has always been him singing. He has always been my song.

(for jackson, my son)