CALL ME BELOVED

In my mind I carry a worn Polaroid,
a scene, blue skies, my inner child and I
sharing a shady park bench, quiet and
watching the world go by, together.

I’d be the one to break the silence,
but damn, kid, what can I say?
We persist, endure, yes, it hurts –
each waking, each brief dream –

yes, Cameron. I am sorry. That
our name slides hot on our tongues
electric sour like licking a 9-volt,
and I am trying to turn it sweeter.

We don’t become less afraid. I’m sorry,
the breadth of grief will only grow
deeper, wide and fathomless choking seas
of it, and we’ll tread water, kiddo –

we’re good at it. Now comes the part where
I wish this wasn’t a worn photo, sad poem,
that we were past strained metaphor so
I could lean in close to you on the bench –

whisper promises into your shoulder that
yes, we still sob for the violent wonder
of it all – just to be here, to lick the battery –
we persist. They never beat that out of us.

I could tell you that yes! Yes, we cried
when the children danced in the aisles
while the fiddle played at church – trees
blossomed outside, as if listening, too –

I would lean into you, Cameron –
our name sweet on my lips as I swear
that we are in this together – show you
how our softness was never a mistake.