Mother 1996

Nick Visconti

My sons are already
crawling, crawling
over the rug where
we used to lie
talking, talking
about our days
and day in the ab-
stract—what we
would do once
our daughter could
lift her head
and roll over—we
would all gather,
our baby swaddled
against my chest
near her brothers. That
was it. That would still
be it if, please, if please
meant the same thing.


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