Poems & Essays

21 Nov

My Son the Doctor

General/Column No Response

after Sharon Olds “My Son the Man”

When my son moves to Iowa
caring for the eyes
of all who need him
suddenly his words grow soft
the way fireflies moderate the night
in a cornfield. It seems no time
since sitting on the floor behind a bookshelf,
I watched him enter his second grade
schoolroom with his classmates; he moved
in that solo life, spoke, sat without knowing
I was there. This was not
what I had pictured when they maneuvered
him out of me, with forceps like salad spoons.
Now he says something about
pianos placed through the city
for all to play, about apples
120 varieties in Wilson’s Orchard,
about humidity tightening his daughter’s curls,
these hushed promises
travel the endless tape of I-80
circle my ear
here, in Utah.

 

Annette Weed is a mother, grandmother, poet and teacher living in Veazie, Maine. Her work has appeared in Freedom Writers, Since Cera, Dialogue, Ancient Paths and elsewhere. When not writing, she can be found hiking or at the opera.

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