Sons

Pamela Riley

I am vain you say
like you know
what I am thinking,
childish and unruly
too unpredictable
to mother sons.
I would neglect them
lead them astray
you say
not feed them proper dinners
or dress them
in the dull grey
of drinking men.
I would not teach them
the coarse sounds
of shirts and boots
of engines taut with fear.
I would not show them fists
or how cheeks
can carry sin
like laundry in a basket.
Only how men
can grow themselves
whole
limbs unfurling gently
where the light tapers
and shows them
the strong touch
of my heart beating
his name.

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