May 5, 2013
To My Sleeping Foster Son
There is a tiny place, a detail of your composition,
where the intended heart distance fails me.
Your pink sherbert lips dip into a dimple,
tucked into the soft roundness of your golden honey cheek.
The dimple deepens when you fall asleep
in your carseat on a Sunday afternoon,
your lips loosened, fuller, like pillows after a shaking.
I wish I could love you warm and sleeping with sunshine on your hair forever.
You won't know me anymore, but my heart will always know you.