My twelve year-old son is conscientious
to soak his injured ankle in the stream.
Returning home to me, he tries so hard
to heal, as if healing were an act of will.
I wasn’t there when they collided, some
grown man and he on some far-away field,
but when I heard, alone in my kitchen,
I fiercely slapped my palm against the door-
Watch how I sink upon my son’s return.
Witness how I cradle his wounded foot.
See how I slowly unwrap his dressing,
his toenails barely grazing my chest.
Look, my boy rests his hand on my shoulder,
my shoulder, as if healing was something
he was born to do.
