Abraham

For Rose Marie

I couldn't find our son today.
I recall when you gave him to me,
warm and small,
his tags still attached to his ears
like adornments, jewelry.

Yet it's been so long since I've seen him,
like you, and I wonder
perhaps he weeps, forgotten and dusty,
smelling of pipe tobacco and cigarettes.

Perhaps he sits,
covered, waiting, amongst all the other paltry remembrances
you once gave to me--
notes, cards, gifts.

Perhaps he has lost an eye
or his tags or his tie
or his stuffing,
with his legs open and bleeding
foam and hair.

Perhaps he rises,
silently crawling in the darkness
over my sleeping body
to find you,
and upon seeing that empty space,
ventures, his one eye downcast,
back to his secret hiding place,
to wish and weep for mother.

James Tze-Ming Hsiao