My Son, Nursing
I type with one hand,
pause when the nipple slips, realign
his rooting. He laughs at nothing,
what the angels whisper, my mother says.
His twist-knot nose is my father's, someone
neither of us will know, though, lately,
the man pesters my dreams in flight suit
and shiny boots, talking without sound
and I know it's wrong
to search one so small for a streak of mean,
but it's the bluish-gray eyes, the smile
when he kicks the crib till his toes bleed,
how his lips keep moving
after I've pulled away.