A son isn’t a story
to be told to strangers
for their pleasure.
A son is a conglomerate
rock with a swirl of color
and layers of pressure.
You cannot reach
into the womb of earth
and deliver this stone.
You cannot crack
the gem open to read
the crystallization of stars
mapping his universe.
You can only lie at night
on the floor beside his crib,
hold a finger out for him
to grasp until his crying
ends and yours begins.
Jim Richards has taught literature and creative writing since completing a PhD at the University of Houston in 2003. His poetry, prose, and photography have appeared recently in Poetry Northwest, Copper Nickel, Sugar House Review, Prairie Schooner, Southern Poetry Review, Juked, and Inklette. He has received nominations for Best New Poets, two Pushcart Prizes, and was granted a fellowship from the Idaho Arts Commission.
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