By Arlyn Miller

He is eight and wouldn't go
to soccer practice yesterday.

He will never be able
to sustain a marriage.

Tonight he couldn't sit still
during High Holy Day services.

He will never be able
to function in a workplace.

Then as I am tucking him in,
feeling that he is warm,

he begins to squirm and retch
with the whole of his small body

and I switch my indictment
as quickly as I flip on the bathroom bulb.

I ache and repent through
the ensuing days of Jello and saltines

until one morning I don't
give him a popsicle for breakfast.

And he goes back to asking,
as he so often does, at eight,

"What's in it for me?"
And I imagine the pillage.

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