Fostering

I.

when we leave him for the last time

right away, we forget the look on his face,

            for fear of burning

down everything we own

            with his memory’s flinted edge

we drive home and there is the red maraca in the back seat,

            there is his smell of shea and coconut,

we are home and his room is a refuge,

            or an abyss. how does a person so small leave

so many things behind:

            a crib full of air, the nibbled books

days grow long here

            among tiny, linted socks

the sound of no one calling, and his name—

            we are learning what our hands are for

we wait to hear of him

            to know, what our love has fostered

whether

            it is better for him to remember or forget

II.

the day before

we take one last walk, him leading

            always lifting a tiny finger towards the pinwheels

plastic rabbits and faded gnomes,

            turning everything into a map of grief

and bitter landmarks. the buttercups in the yard

            those strange, sparkling bits of concrete

everything he’s loved. the wand-sized twigs on the edge

            of the sidewalk—their magic gone

with him

III.

five hundred days before we leave him

we meet his father, and we know

            what it is to lose.

to see the grief coming

            like a bullet or a mine.

a boy, toddling forward. his father, reaching

            for him in the dark.

we don’t want to cover the danger with our bodies

            but we do.

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