I chart the times we mark him absentó
on the swing, at the table, mid-laugh.
He goes dark, is running for the house,
but stops before the trailing foot can land,
blank-stares into the light.
Maybe he is watching sparrows falling
from the byway of branches by the thousands,
the ground hardened by feathers and bone.
The brain scan shows
clouds in the grey matter.
I dream that each seizure is a plow
weeping through the field, cut by a river.
According to the Farmerís Almanac,
this year will not grow steady.
My son crouches into the husk of summer,
hears the moon too loud.
We do not tell him what the doctors say.
But he knows a secret cannot be swallowed,
that it hangs in the vase of a throat
while the cut flowers drink and bloom
their own dumb beauty.
I beg my husband to hide the shears,
to keep them from skinning the light.