This child of mine
is more religion than I’ve ever had,
though I was ushered to church
three hours each Sunday
and twice a week during Advent and Lent.
This I can’t get away from—wouldn’t want to.
The first time I went without him,
I felt more than naked, rushed back
up the mountain, didn’t leave again
for at least a year, my mind coming back
over and over to its beloved object,
my heart repenting all its lapses—
every moment I’ve snuck to read
or write or struggle against my day.
It repents as soon as he’s asleep
in my arms and I press my hands
against his body, willing the overflow
of affection through his tissue, into his heart.
Of what does devotion consist, if not of this,
and of squatting on the floor in front of the toilet,
and of allowing him to ride me, a hands-and-knees horse,
and of correcting without display
his every irregular verb gone awry?
I am lucky: my conscience is clear most days,
cleared over and over by him, and yet it is not enough.
A cougar slopes by our window in broad daylight,
a tawny seraphim, announcing
you must hold your child closer, pay attention
closer, closer by this much.