Poem of the Day: The Son I'll Never Have

The Son I'll Never Have


by Mark Wunderlich






The son I’ll never have is crossing the lawn. He is lying on an              
imaginary bed,


the coverlet pulled up over his knees—knees I don’t dare                    
describe.


I recoil from imagining him as meat and bone, as a mind


and hands stroking the fur of his pet rabbit.


I never gave him the accordion I used to play, my mother and I


in duets: “The Minnesota Polka,” “What a Friend We Have in          
Jesus,”


never watched him push noodles into his mouth with fingers


while I wished he would use the spoon shiny with disuse.


I am free from longing to be free; I do as I please,


my money is my own, all the mistakes I make are only my                    
mistakes.


What is it to look at something you made and see the future?


What is it to have someone made by your body, but whose                  
mind


remains just out of reach? I’ll never know. Come here, little                
rabbit.


Eat these greens. I will pet your cloudy fur with the mind’s                
hand.