CALL ME BELOVED

My son asked me how I can pack snowballs
without gloves; aren’t you cold? Doesn’t it hurt?
So many unspeakable answers for him, like –

Because soon life will hurt you in ways
that make cold hands just spilled milk –

Because after the needlestabs it all goes numb,
maybe into that same gray my mind sinks, at night –

Or because pain is feeling, kiddo, and I’m desperate
for buoys and life rafts while I’m treading water –

Instead, I pass the snowball into his gloved hands
and reach back into the bank, stinging rosy fingers
scooping snow to pack another, and I tell him –

It’s okay, I can take it – I don’t want you to be cold.