Soneta

Our boy in hand, she rises, padding
in shimmering pantalettas,
small-heeled across the livingroom.
From our cozy kitchenette I leer

large-eyed and jealous of that cloth
that clings to where my hands have been.
I count my blessings. As I write
these selfish words the coffee cools,

the walls are settling in a silence
that indicates a toddler's spring
has wound itself out. O merciful Sleep,
Visit the brow of the rampant child

but keep your meddling dust from the eyes
of the ravishing angel that with him lies.


1999