matinee

Even cold popcorn can't compete with this.

The way your hand grips your cup and your teeth dent the straw
and your whole being seems lifted up and away among the stars.

You bite your lip and peer up through your bangs, groping for the last milkdud as the theme music
swells

and crescendo

and your face bursts back into familiarity with the rolling of the credits.


'That was great, Mom', you say, and hop down, ready to
kick ass on the video games in the lobby.


You've been the best date I've had in ages. Wanna go out next weekend?

seven

You were so small, so miniature
So l-o-u-d in the indrawn hush blip-blip of the O.R.
Squashy red raisin, dark-headed...boy? Boy!

Your father held you in cupped hands, breath held, like Dresden
and I......

...I hiccoughed and tried not to let the amazed tears
shake my loose belly open where the surgeon was trying to close.

How is it possible that you're seven?
Seven is for big kids, for skinned knees and riding bikes and

well, you're so mine, whatever the age.

Happy Birthday, baby.
We are so glad you're here.