John Being Dried By His Mother

By Daniel James Sundahl

Outside on this warm summer day,
John knows his own lungs, his joy;
His rapture blends with the coo of doves,
Breathy and low, arms opened wide,
Child-said, immaculate soul, adored.

Immortality must exist in these sounds,
In the softness of skin, small phalli, blue eyes
Where time roosts or for a time has fled.

When she looks at him, she catches deep breaths,
Heart up, aloft, blooming, dreaming again.

Will she have time in her middle years
To cherish the memory of lifting him up,
To say to him, “live,” and again, “live,”
Mother and son and for the moment holiness?

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Daniel James Sundahl is Professor in English and American Studies at Hillsdale College where he has taught for thirty years.

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