July Twenty-two, Thirteen Years Later

right now

three forty six in the morning

it's warm in here, and humid

my hair is fuzzy

ponytails

i took something for my head

and now i'm loopy.

today my boys are thirteen.

i remember low glucose

thin wails

talk of nicu

-let me up-

they brought my mother in

to help me breathe

she talked me down

they were okay

i took them home.

now

three fifty in the morning

one small thin boy

mohawk, brown eyes

sleeps on the couch

one small thin boy

shaggy hair, blue eyes

curls on the floor near my feet

their bedroom is huge

bunk beds and posters

computers and batmen

and baseballs

i don't know why they sleep in here

i like to have them near me

i don't mind.

four oh seven in the morning

pause to listen to tales of star trek movies

history

there is a man

with a beard

sitting across from me

he is familiar as my breath

his voice is lullaby and song

you can talk to me all night

the subject foreign

i don't care

the kids are learning french

your father calls you antony

i don't know where this is

i want to stay.

four oh nine in the morning

and soon the boys will rise

tear open paper packages

movies, blocks and books

i will stand by with the camera

freezing time

i cannot miss

a single second

of this life.