For my sigh of exasperation
for the harshness of my glance
the raised and rigid voice
end-of-evening, red-wine-fueled impatience
for the sharpness of my eyes
which you must come to fear
that harden under furrowed brows
for the tense silence
and clenching of muscles
for the sarcastic word, a fugitive
that flies from my brutal hole
with speed and ferocity
an escaped bird
before I can corner it, fluttering
and seduce it back to its cage
to join the other swallowed words
the ones that all mothers bury within their bodies
for when I lack softness, steadiness
compassion
for the moments when my hand
should have caressed your smooth shoulders
comforting you
but remained obstinately limp
when I forget
that you are tired
and little
and came on this earth only recently
when I fail to remember
that you are a treasure
a jewel that formed
in the tender cave of my belly
that you and I were once one
for the days
when I do not call you what you are:
beloved
my little boy
the dove that fluttered inside me
your limbs of honey and milk and flesh
tiny and trembling encompassed in my sea
I possess the most terrible power
the power to harm you
with the absence of my love
for this, my darling
forgive me
