At your breast he likes to play
dive-for-the-******.
Like an Olympian on the high platform
he rears back,
contemplates the distance,
the object,
then lunges.
Today he grabs his own hair, pulls.
And screams.
The more he pulls, the more he screams
until I unclutch his fingers.
Don’t we all wish sometimes
a big hand would swoop down
to unclutch us
from our mistakes?
Then, oh! to rear back
and lunge
at life’s big love.
