Poem of the Week XXXI

More John Stone:

Love Poem for a Son

John Stone

I begin with you,

not red and wailing,

but small and round

in the upper tube,

where X met Y and multiplied,

in the soft cave of the uterus

where you caught and hung;

when notochord was spinal cord

and gut was gut forever;

when eyes were large,

as they still are;

and the heart was gathering

blood like flowers;

and what you started with

had to do.

You curled and uncurled

before the first breath

of anything but fluid,

and the thump of the mother

heart gave motion and all magic,

till you moved out like a little boat,

and came to me, red and weeping,

as even now you sometimes do.

I end with you.