I turn to ask Morgan, my six year old, to
stop chewing on his shirt,
and he asks me for the car keys, and I wake up on the floor
next to his crib
counting breaths, he's sick, it's what the book said to do,
Morgan's crying; his baby brother has crushed his Tinker Toy
Morgan's crushed the front end of the car, and part of his
Morgan's talking so early, he puts on Daddy's tie and says
he's "goin' to
work, Mom," and Morgan's talking so much he's failing
circle time in
preschool, and his wife can't get a word in, and he's talking
to me on the
phone about why she left. Morgan's running, but tripping. His
toes turn in
and we buy corrective shoes. Morgan's running track and
and he's crossing the country in his first new car to live
far away from us as before he was born.
My mother always told me I should be cursed with a
daughter just like me. Instead I have three sons who are
their own kind of curse, and many blessings, too.
If you've any comments on this poem, Svea Barrett-Tarleton would
be pleased to hear from you.