Subject Matter

I don’t put my son in poems.
I don’t tally his words.

Or say that he sleeps with an arm
looped around each bear,
knees tucked in, face turned
into his dreams.

Because I only really breathe
when he presses his jawbone
to mine and laughs.

He won’t want this—
a reminder of how our faces
touch, our mouths close
and careless.

I have read the myths, I know the rules:
each day is a wave carrying him out—
I will not have him hate the shore.