Cut apple, my son says.
He doesn’t understand the work of a blade,
why the male cardinal becomes September
in a tree, showing off his bold flame
like men on the street who whistle at me.
I always wanted a son. Now that I have,
how do I have a son and make him
the kind of man I want for a daughter?
Is it in the field of daisies I say to smell,
but not pick? Is it in my voice
as I comfort him, never demanding to be
a big boy, but instead yes, that hurt.
Is it the way he already knows to kiss
a baby doll made of plastic, her flimsy
eyelids and lashes shutting then opening
faster than seeing any wrong thing?
Maybe it’s in the love I want for myself.
The kind that holds promises like a child
does a pinecone. Small, and always wrapped
in a soft fist. Protecting, but never
diminishing. As if the child knows
something this primal can always be taken.
