An excerpt from

by Bruce Taylor

My Son

How much death in this small fist?
How much in twelve weeks of the summer,

In the black star-map of his footprint
Pinned to the wall above my desk?

Fourteen pounds: I have a bag of rice
Heavier than that.

Yesterday he fell, or I dropped him
Three steps down to a slab of concrete.

I examined him well, h e was still closed
And perfect all over,
Not open at all. Nothing was different
But still I saw it,
How much death there was,
How all of it poured out, a cloud of moths
Hiding in the light.