My mother tried to tell me with her downturned
mouth trembling at the corners, “I wish
I had been better to my own mother.
You will see someday.”
And now here is my child,
but not mine nor a child.
My body is a downward pull,
but not like the downward pull of birthing him.
In this one, the skin succumbs to gravity. The eyes,
the jaw, know regret already.
Why didn’t I?
Appreciate and rejoice
in the sun with her, who cannot come back.
as well
the boy turned man,
as well
the dog, who never could stay
and even now
the other half of me, the man,
who too often
I don’t recognize as such.