Young Son Poem

Middle Of The Night We Weep

Son, too young to fully understand
how a marriage could break.
Unlike the table full of precious
things, dismembered shards of figurines,
picked up one piece at a time by him and I
after his mother assaulted the peace,
another out of control moment of rage.
Our family photo in the pile, framework separated,
shattered glass poking into our bodies.
The marriage bond is invisible, untouchable.

He is like me,
a mama’s boy.
He wears many labels,
L.D., A.D.D., Special Ed.
His whole life
she has done
everything for him,
whacked compensation
for only gaining
five pounds
during her pregnant
veil of deception.

After my new label, single father stuck,
the trial over, instincts intact,
my actions, placed on the empty table
for everyone to see and judge,
one night, well after midnight,
he came unpeeled,
lethargic, fever shooting bullets of sweat.
I knew what to do,
give medicine, a tepid bath,
comforting words, still he cried.
He was incoherent, inconsolable,
all he wanted, was to be held close
rocked back to sleep in his mother’s arms.