Mark's Moment

Inspired by a class I took with teacher and poet, Scott Owens, he asked us about the moments in our lives. If we can recall them, we'll always have something to write. Sitting in the sun later that afternoon, with my Rob, I wrote this poem about our son Mark. This moment burned into my memory when he was about 7 months old.

Mark’s Moment

Roused by a raspy cry,
a boy child’s moan.
His cheek flames against mine.
Mini suffering, his mewling, belongs to me.
In robe, slippers and cuddle, we scuttle, down to the kitchen.
The stove light hallows our performance.
Our stage is shadowed by midnight melatonin.
The washing machine, no oscillate.
Without ring, phone silent.
Doors locked.
The only movements are trusses rising and falling in contented snores,
creaks and swells, drowned by sound at dawn.
Mark Richard, the meaning, “Brave Warrior.”
His foot fits in my palm—both burn courageous, as over hot coals.
Watery brown eyes melt in mine.
Infantile, he doesn’t tug at ears, doesn’t point to his throat.
But Mom knows.
My senses strain to feel what my babe does, like a willing sacrifice.
To take his place, I face an impasse.
Tylenol tames.
Iced juice—cools the beast—Mommy’s touch catalyzing the two.
Our tears trail together—and teach.
A still small voice, heard in wee hours.
“My children, you will have trials, but be of good cheer.”
“I am with you.”