For My Son on His Nineteenth Birthday

Three days of labor
and the thimble of hope
was pleasant in the mind of a mother
who wanted to believe that brave counted.

Three days in labor and the fledgling in my belly
took the yoke of my hope and burned with each wave,
with illumination and brawn
we fought to bring you into the light,
determined to see each other
just as we were. . .
bloody and bold;
completely human.

Three days and the truth
was settled in the eyes of the hand maidens.

Midwives.

Three days and exhausted,
I panted in pain,
Jesus knew me
with each breath.

Jesus knew me.

Jesus knew.

Three days in my arms,
unreal and sweet breath of death's expiration,
Three days of putting you in the plastic nest
like a cowbird stealing someone else's space
in the warmth of the breast.
Three days waiting
for the path to open while your father said
"Put him down. It will only encourage him, warm him."

Three days of birth
and death
and the reminder
of a life resurrected.

And now, on the day of this son's death
I am middling fair. I am insignificant.
I am unneeded. I am undone.

Jesus knows I am almost lost
in the simple thoughts of three days
of life and death.

Jesus knows I am almost lost.

Jesus knows I am.
Jesus knows.

Jesus.