By Svea Barrett

I turn to ask Morgan, my six-year-old, to stop chewing on his shirt,
and he asks me for the car keys, and I wake up on the floor next to
his crib counting breaths, he's sick, it's what the book said to do,
and Morgan's crying, his baby brother crushed his Tinker Toy tower.
Morgan's crushed the front end of the car, and part of his brother's leg.
Morgan's talking so early, he puts on a tie and says he's "goin' to work,
Mom," and Morgan's talking so much he's failing circle time in preschool,
and his wife can't get a word in, and he's talking to me on the phone
about why she left. Morgan's running, but tripping. His toes turn in
and I buy corrective shoes. Morgan's running track and cross country,
and he's crossing the country in his first new car to live almost as far
away from me as before he was born.

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This poem previously appeared in Snakeskin.

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