Sunday, April 14, 2013


My first-born ponders 
the parameters of "girl" 
and its fittings. She bound

her chest for the first 
time this morning.
This afternoon, I am binding 

a book for the first 
time. These two acts 
relate only in topography 

of the verb. In the evening
I unwind by nestling 
my youngest son in my lap 

to tell him my recollections 
of his gestation, and how I'm still trying 
to translate the braille I felt 

through the wall that veiled 
his beautiful language, but barely constrained
my stretching definition of love.

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