children, he becomes an aspen, a breeze ruffling
the mouth. It shivers, bends, resettles
itself. And when he lies down to sleep, it
does not come easy, because a worm means
an absence in the middle of things. I could talk
all night and never soothe his confusion,
only quieted when he is running — vaulting
over earth rock water — on land kept
alive by downpours and string. I owe the world
for this boy, who knows the threading
of leaf veins, thrills at frogs, every moist,
unfurling tongue that snaps on a whir. When,
in the net, the catfish flips and writhes, he lets
it fall to slap the pond, and disappear. Already
he knows how tight and muscling the heart
can grow. The bite space in the chest — what
the worm leaves behind — is large enough
for a windy carol. Can I protect this emptiness? Can I
protect it while he grows? Can I fill
this space? Can I keep it green?
