My son hunches into the storm in his oversized coat
to collect fast offerings, a two-hour route
…..because the other mother’s sons stay in when it’s cold.
…..He is mine.
………..His wrists
out-hang his sleeves. His hair
squirms out of his well-slicked part, and he is mine. He’s out there
…..in the snow and I can’t settle. Thirteen years old; thirteen,
…..the way he slides a little to the right of us on the Sunday pew,
……….like someone has hit “tab” on the keyboard, though still
……….he’ll let me pull him back to drape my arm around
……….those slumping shoulders.
……………Shadow of boy.
It’s snowing and he is fine out there. He’s fine. At home
he sprawls on the couch behind those heavy eyes. Outline
of boy. Echo of boy. I tell it to him straight: “The reward
for showing up,” I say, “is that you’re the first one they call
…..next time. Find a way to be proud of that.” He looks
…..away. Should I apologize for this burden of duty I’ve bred
……….into him, for the fact that from here on out
……….he’ll never be able to leave a ward party
………..without putting away chairs? Welcome
………..to Mormon guilt, my son. Welcome to the wilderness.
Sometimes a suit is a front bumper, silver plating, deadweight. Sometimes it is wings.
Those heavy-lidded eyes. Let there be a man
…..behind there. The still-narrow shoulders, crooked
……….tie. Does he slump to parenthesize the space
……………he’ll leave when he’s gone? Look
………………..forward, son. Look forward,
………………..mother. On the horizon
……………………..in the chalky dusk:
……………………………contrail of boy.