By Ona Gritz

I'm ruining my son's life by making him wear a jacket.
"I'll be hot all day," he yells, tugging the collar,
"It's too tight anyway." Slamming the door.

He's outgrowing everything. Jackets, pants,
my directives on what to wear. Another mother
would take this afternoon, shop for clothes

two sizes up. But in this silence I hear the start
of something, an image of stillness in the aftermath
of my growing boy's rage. Back in the birthroom,

through a mirror, I saw his face: calm as milk
in its cup. He opened his eyes, paused, released
his voice, startling himself with its force.

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