pieces of the son

 
 
the artichoke and pomegranate
know too well as subtle fluids
the full and sweet
of sweat and blood

as oil from the olive
and other viscous tides
can carve alluvial fans

so to do the placental nutrients
etch and nurse the embryonic rhythms
of the natal ebb and flow

this water follows us
and in the light and darkness
of uterine seizures
a small man knows
everything

i will to mine make known the ache of living

that the raven and the humming bird
will fight for food

that children sledding suffer freak accidents

that sunsets and young mothers
battle together against the bright allure
of a silvery moon

by the wayside lie pieces of the son

a low-running mountain spine
a cobblesome river
neither still nor stirring
a smudge for hope and dearness

runnels lead here
the heart closes and opens
yet nothing might pass