as fast as he can, elongated

wrists dangling, lean meat

showing between the shirt and the belt.

If there were a rack to stretch himself, he would

strap his slight body to it.

If there were a machine to enter,

skip the next ten years and be

sixteen immediately, this boy would

do it. All day long he cranes his

neck, like a plant in the dark with a single

light above it, or a sailor under

tons of green water, longing

for the surface, for his rightful life.

For My Daughter

That night will come. Somewhere someone will be

entering you, his body riding

under your white body, dividing

your blood from your skin, your dark, liquid

eyes open or closed, the slipping

silken hair of your head fine

as water poured at night, the delicate

threads between your legs curled

like stitches broken. The center of your body

will tear open, as a woman will rip the

seam of her skirt so she can run. It will happen,

and when it happens I will be right here

in bed with your father, as when you learned to read

you would go off and read in your room

as I read in mine, versions of the story

that changes in the telling, the story of the river.

Rite of Passage

As the guests arrive at my son’s party

they gather in the living room—

short men, men in first grade

with smooth jaws and chins.

Hands in pockets, they stand around

jostling, jockeying for place, small fights

breaking out and calming. One says to another

How old are you? Six. I’m seven. So?

They eye each other, seeing themselves

tiny in the other’s pupils. They clear their

throats a lot, a room of small bankers,

they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you

up, a seven says to a six,

the dark cake, round and heavy as a

turret, behind them on the table. My son,

freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,

chest narrow as the balsa keel of a

model boat, long hands

cool and thin as the day they guided him

out of me, speaks up as a host

for the sake of the group.

We could easily kill a two-year-old,

he says in his clear voice. The other

men agree, they clear their throats

like Generals, they relax and get down to

playing war, celebrating my son’s life.

Relinquishment

On a black night in early March,

the fire hot, my daughter says

Wrap me in something. I get the old

grey quilt, gleaming like a sloughed

insect casing, and wrap it around and

around her narrow nine-year-old body,

hollow and flexible. Cover my face,

she hisses in excitement. I cover her face

and fall back from the narrow, silver

shape on the carpet.
                            How finally

she is getting away—an Egyptian child

bound in gauze, set in a boat

on a black night in early March