by Robert James Berry

  Still bloody

  Purple and crying

  With pudgy fingers

  Thinning hair


           Our son is

  A creased old man

  A bawling sage

  in woollen blankets


  It is my savage superstition to pray

  and give thanks


  Now that they have

  mopped shined you

  made of you a serene swaddled infant


  You are absolutely still

  A mystic with no name


  With sleep

  You shall grow young

      in this house


  Round as the moon

Published April 3, 1999
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