We Are Here

A poem

Photo by the author

You string the hammocks yourself.
They swing like half-moons winking at us.
I settle into mine and you into yours,
then you call out for me to come over.

I tell you,
we will be too heavy,
now that you are thirteen.

You give the look that no mother can ignore.
Even if we sank to the forest floor,
it would be worth it.
So, I join you, in yours.

Your head rests on my middle, cushy as a worn pillow.
Suspended, we are here.

Your hand swipes overhead to draw a ceiling of black over us.
We are cocooned, unborn into the world—
unscarred.

You are thirty seconds new,
wide-eyed on my clammy skin
with your scent of lavender milk.

We are here,
one breath weaving between us.

I finger dry dirt near your ear,
tuck my chin into your buttery hair,
and inhale the ripe sweat of a boy becoming a man.

Though, I still sing to you to sleep,
tell stories of mother nature on your back.

We sway,
in a waft of woodsmoke
to cooing campfire crackle.

Trees never creak,
bands never slip,
burrowed inside,
we are here.

Originally published at http://blueheronreview.com on May 19, 2023.