CALL ME BELOVED

To hear it all explained by my son
while I fumble with the housekeys,
arms overfull with grocery bags
and he spins in the foyer like a flywheel,
there’s just three types of parent, you see –
the normal ones, strict ones, and mean ones –
I’m stunned to be counted as normal.
I crack the front door, he darts past my legs –
another day debating disclosure. Debating
demolishing this well-constructed view –
detailing painstakingly how some parents
embody all three – that’s how they get you –
but he’s already stolen my bedpillow,
made a chrysalis out of a comforter –
who am I to shatter this kind of peace?
Like toppling over a tower of blocks,
like kicking down sandcastles, like
piercing the shell of hatching eggs
too soon, too soon, I can’t. I can’t.
I afford myself the space he’s left for me,
the sliver of cushion beside his cocoon –
I reflect on the virtues of normalcy.