a poem for parenthood
I've got a poem, only, for my daughter's anaphylactic reaction yesterday.
it’s not the walnut’s fault. On its
deciduous perch--warbly,
dry--its done nothing but crest on breezes flinging
between ground and branch: your baby play,
it’s juvenile state. The shells fall
out when they are grown,
like your teeth, first erupting from the gums,
then eject. I love
you mo…