Max

My grandson’s life is red hair,
a rumpled receiving blanket,
a fist that wanders in and out
of his puckered mouth.
Like a new kitten, he keeps
his eyes closed, opening them
only when sleep is spent
and light turns dim.
The irises are blue bullets
of deep water. My fingers
grip the twig of his wrist.
The tops of his hands
are dotted and bruised
from IV needles, the first
violations of his body.
He doesn’t know his long
prehensile feet, toes groping,
will serve to grip
the giddy earth as it whirls.
Silly mewling, he thinks
he’ll get what he asks for,
and in fact he will until he has
the words to do the asking.

Ken Autrey


If you have any comments on this poem,  Ken Autrey would be pleased to hear from you.