Adam is walking, tentatively, but not to my outstretched hands.
He is saying a few words, but my name’s not one of them.
His smile is a green light, his voice is a windchime,
but he’s always asleep when I call.
I’m sending him a gift
that his mother will like.
I saw you three hours new,
not pink or shriveled — I was surprised.
But I could not touch you:
I had a cold.
Now it’s two hours in a plane,
two years in a blink,
and I still don’t know what to bring.
(First published in aversion)