Something for Sunday

Infancy

He conducts his silent music.

He's a neatly podded pea.

A lovely writhing bubbling grub

made up of half of me.

He wobbles his head no,

A damsel threatening to shriek,
As I hover overhead, weighing a

kiss upon his cheek.

Smacks and tiny gurgles,

wriggles, puppy whines.

I lift his ankles like a turkey,

scour his behind.

Already he resists me:

Bees inside the hive.

I'm glad of it regardless.

It's proof that he's alive.

Morning After the Fourth of July Party

White birds dive from the church

outside, quick shadows like a kiss.

The people spill out rapidly.

The cars drive by and hiss.

One door away, he's in his cup,

a swirl upon his head.

Last night, we passed him all around,

to share like golden bread.

He worked his charms unwittingly,

while mostly not awake.

Our people asked to hold him,

to hold for holding's sake.

The host lit bottle rockets that shrieked their small lungs out.

We touched sparklers together and swished them all about.

I didn't think: America! The abstract leaves me cold.

I think instead how we all shared our prickly stars of gold.