Poetry

for Liam

there isn’t much more pure than that breath 

of yours, even if it does induce a sound 

akin to the geese that used to chase us 

in Carol Ann Cross Park, ruthless and nipping 

at the backside of my nanny as she corralled 

us into the car, quacking as they stomped,

quacking just like you are now as you breathe 

against my chest. 

I count the rhythm of the little

noises that belong to you: one and two and three

and four, then one and-a two and-a three-e-and-a,

one two and-a three four—

I never claimed it was steady—but reliable

nonetheless, that noise, in and out,

patterned and mathematical, 

reminding me of your (tiny) existence.