You don't want to hear it,
but I still think of him.

When he turns his little feet
in circles, circles, circles,
and waves those jerky fists
I think of him.

When he squeals with delight and leaps
into the arms of everyone
who reaches for him
I think of him.

At night, when he won't sleep
until I rock and sing and
sing and rock again
and falls asleep, still moving,
always moving
I think of him.

I think of how
his feet might have been a
constant circle, too.

I think of how
he would have stared lovingly
at his own little fists.

I think of how
he would have squealed in delight
while the Church passed him around.

I think of how,
when they put him in my arms
he was already asleep
even though
I hadn't sung him
any lullabies.