Cameron Morse
I know my mouth is open.
I would like to close my burning
eyes in the heatstroke sun
of the first of July. But the yellow
snail kiddie pool describes
how children drown, one by one,
in language after language.
Three dusty lawn chairs surround me.
Theo carries an orange cup.
When the idea of a refill strikes him,
he grunts at the spigot, begins
to cry then comes to fetch water
from the inflatable rubber lining
of the snail. I try to think
of all the things I've heard said,
or read, and what might not
yet have been written. In tree shade,
the pendulum of his child swing
veers right as if S-hooked
a link shorter on that side, his neck
flopped right. His ballcap drops.
Uh-oh, he says: one of his first words.
Later, Theo skimps on lunch.
Lethargic, almost docile
for once, he permits me to zip him
in his sleep sack.