Having borne the brunt
of the women’s curse,
your mother sat with you,
quietly nursing at her breast.
Your pink wrinkles shielded under
her sea-green hospital gown:
My eyes are blessed to see this.
Blessed and red and wet.
Every few days, your lifespan doubled,
but all you knew so far was white walls
sterile scenery and dry hospital air.
I read the parable of the lost sheep
and a Pablo Neruda poem—
wistful and melancholy.
For now you’ll just have to imagine
what a sheep or a Chilean “calle” might look like.
The brunt of a man’s curse
is that the work he does
for the ones he loves
is done almost entirely away from them.
I kissed your head and I headed for the door into the sunshine,
hoping maybe tomorrow you could see it for yourself.