Wednesday, March 1, 2017

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                    

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          

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                    

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                  

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

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

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