By Erin Malone
Down from the ladder of sleep
my son comes, taller than the night before
and I a fraction smaller,
allowed a one-armed hug. Next door
an earthmover, god of this
neighborhood, is chewing up the scenery,
its vibration in the cages
of my eyes—yet the animals aren’t rattled.
The knots of his knees disguised
in new muscle, my son comes down from his loft
in solid form and says
Do you know trees are 90% air?
As if I haven’t spent years standing here
holding my breath.