YOU LIE WITH YOUR SON

EMMA KARNES

in morning His hands are dead leaves
             vein-traced and early in August
They crinkle against sheets
 
like gauze He laughs in this dream, maybe
             splashing in backyard’s baby brook,
and you almost call to him baby, back to bed, be
 
with me To revive those months so long
             ago: reprise of black humus, sky
humid, toes creek-cold and rosy fingers
 
interwoven Now you make his forehead
             your sun, kiss it for warmth How fast
passes summer when a child is withering.

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