unearth

paper husk of bittersweet, a berry all too bright to summon a child.
crisp of snow crust edge before foot weight sinks beneath, into soft.
stone wall formed by calloused hands over two centuries ago, that lift
and ache. sweat long worn into secret pockets of rock. here, you dig.
your head low and focused beneath the waist high wall. sometimes,
you are digging for escape. you’ve heard if you dig long enough,
you will find your way to other countries, other hemispheres. now,
the only country is that of your fingernails clustered with new york
dirt, a smear of red from when you found old bottle glass, brown thick,
jagged edge. like your ankles and knees come summertime, when thorns
of berry vines and rough gravel roads reach for your bare legs, always
running, always searching. crack splinter of a too-new pine branch beneath
your foot, that greening edge inside the bright, broken wood.

for my son

the moments you’ll remember won’t always
be the big ones. for example, one day you’ll
mouth gratitude for having lived in a time
when you could dance to dancing with myself
by billy idol, top volume. that once, you could
walk around the lake, feel the rise of your heart,
your breath, stop with chilled cheeks to watch
deer with wonder. deer always with wonder,
your once city self. the day the moose emerged
from the tree across the field while we were
all eating dinner on the porch. i don’t remember
what we were eating, just our open jaws
and all of us standing and pointing at the horse
sized alien across from us, both out of place
and magnificent. the day i took you on a walk
on my chest, climbed the angle of mountain
to discover coyotes in a far-off corner where
prairie dogs once lived. three in the afternoon
and they yipped and barked, and you opened
your eyes and said ooooh. how once, your
father’s hand would reach for me, my palm,
my thigh, without even realizing it, as
necessary and unnoticed as breath.