On the crown of his head
where the fontanelle pulsed
between spongy bones,
a bald spot is forming, globed and sleek
as a monk’s tonsure.
I was the earliest pinch of civilization,
the one who laced him
into shoe leather
when he stumbled into walking upright.
“Shoes are unfair to children,” he’d grouse.
Through a pane of glass
that shivers when the wind kicks up
I watch my son walk away.
He’s out the door, up the street, around
a couple of corners by now.
I’m in for life.
He trips; my hand flies out;
I yank it back.
Poem copyright ©2009 by Chana Bloch from her most recent book of poems, Blood Honey, Autumn House Press, 2009, and reprinted by permission of Chana Bloch and Autumn House Press.