Anniversary
There was a Thanksgiving.
I washed dishes and through the window
watched swings
appear and disappear,
a flash of corduroy, a blur of fleece,
the baby’s pink mouth cracked open in surprise,
the toddler’s maniacal laugh. Beyond my field of vision one long arm,
then the other, pushed in military rhythm.
PUMP! Little legs getting no traction
in that thin air.
In that moment, we were all four of us
at the bottom of a deep well
where the sound waves
from the baby’s cries would never find their way
to air and light. With my bare hands, I clawed marks in well-walls
to keep track of those days
in captivity. Neck craned, I squinted at that place, bandaged
bleeding fingers,
called ECHO! EHCO!
Echo, echo, the toddler repeated.
echo... echo… boomeranged from above.
Echo, echo, the baby said, and crawled
to the suitcase, where my socks, his father’s boxers, lay snug
in neat rolls,
echo, the baby sang. Echo, echo, echo,
and clapped his hands.