Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue Two

Chris Girman

Love Poem to My Son

You ravage me Suck huckleberries from my fingertips Dip eyes like loose buttons and run away. I sit alone at the splintered table Watch Fountain Grass track light across your back. What good are ladylike fingers between men? Look at you! Cinnamon-eared and fragile, Impervious to your father's kisses. Do father's fetched from grief Steal kisses from their sons? Sunday morning's pretty, pouting mouth — I make merry just to watch you laugh. Will you remember Old November's Frosted figs and rhubarb pie? How carefully I tied your nectar bonnet? I shall carry you like Armenia Until my tongue lines the seashore of your mouth Like a fisherman in knee-deep water. Boys best raised by their father Whispers the pescador, Lapping guava paste from his fingers. You smile because you are hungry.