For the Son I Never Had
The way you say “air conditioner” slays me
and when you’re older, the way you cut the wheel
to make a corner.
Why shouldn’t we talk about what never was?
Not because of a lack of love, but because of
something more opaque the color of a grey sky
in winter, how it bleeds into the ocean and at
some point they touch like the two unreal
entities they are.
I’ve spent my life inside a nice, calm man; you are
endlessly elegy and as I watch you run into the world
like a plow into a snow bank, I can’t help
but thank your mother for your blade.
When I get home, I will read this poem
over and over again to watch you rise
off the page like some mythical beast
all my flaws sewn into your chest.