ZERO AT THE BONE
Last night on the phone
my son told me he left his four month old son
in the car, forgetting he was there.
In the checkout line, he remembered.
Abandoning his cart, he flung himself
through the line.
The police had opened the door
and the baby was quiet,
but they wouldn’t let my son
touch his child. I don’t know
what happened inside him
or the baby as he watched his father
dissolve, then reappear, crying,
and I don’t know what to say on the phone
murmuring, “Oh sweetie, oh sweetie,”
words I never use, words my father said to me
when I stuck my hand in the blades of a lawnmower
and I cried in the grass holding the flesh together.
fiction poetry "fact" photography