Self-Portrait Beside Myself

We’ve been lucky—March is over

and my son is still alive. My daughter

is about to crawl. And the golden

sunset light recalls

distant childhood light.

I feed my son while he sleeps

through a hole in his tummy

when the night nurse

has the night off,

and when I go to the mirror

it’s to see if the ocean-eyed man

the teenager I was had hoped to become

is anywhere in there.

The teenager is; he wants you

to see him, help him, tell him

he’s strong and gently

dramatic. He wants

to be part of a story, even

if not a true one. He wants

to fuck like mad,

even if I don’t. Standing over my son

at night, I feel quiet, only then,

no need to be me or anyone,

just listening to him breathe.

I can divide all life

into breath and waiting

for the next breath, and

the calm in the troughs

between. I wanted

to show you I could see the world

without me in the way; I can’t, not

even for a little while. I’m beside

that man watching over his son,

impressed with him and his humility.

But if that’s what it takes,

to keep my son safe—admiring

my better self rather than

being him—then ok. That’s ok.