MY SON, SUSPENDED
I drop him off, and get the call
and drive back to his school
to find him slumped against a sign,
one hand in his pocket, etched
with pen-stroked rock bands, pentagrams,
the other waving.
We drive to the mountains,
listen for the avalanche cannon.
He did not speak until he was three.
We pass a field of winesaps.
I tell him that, when he was two,
he loved applesauce, would put
two full spoons into his mouth.
He describes his enemies. I say
write a poem. He does, on a clipboard,
in red pen.
When he was three, he pushed
an olive into his mouth
and looked at me, and swallowed
the whole black seeded lump of it,
He reads his poem: There is a world
and three moons. Two are white and dutiful.
I tell him that I love him, that I have always loved him.
The sun is small.
We drive through Rifle,
stopping at a restaurant that overlooks
the buffalo, though none stands in the lazy grass
outside the window of the ancient
leather booth, order.
The window allows a piece of a moon,
enough to light the veins beneath his temples,
his eyes upon my applesauce.