To My Son

When mom and I divorced

you stopped holding my hand

you stopped running into my arms

you stopped

Not because you were getting older

Not because you didn't love me

out of the coy corners of you eyes

or out of the little beginnings of a wry smile of hope

or happiness, or love.

but because suddenly at eight the world had

suddenly become a sad place

that at eight the energy coming off your fingers

coming off your eyelids

coming off the electrified tips of hair

had been snuffed out

had been closed like a house

on a street, in a city you

would never return to.

We try but end up doing nothing

but waiting for our lives to be over


Do you know I wrote two wonderful poems

filled with your brothers and was

waiting..waiting..waiting

not to write this poem to you.