He knows because my hands

cradle his head, my fingers 

travel in packs across his arms 

and his chest, palm his chin, 

direct his smile toward mine.

 

Sometimes I rub through 

the short hair on the back 

of his head the way one does 

to a pup who’s been a very 

 

good boy, or swim under his 

elbows and over his shoulders 

to latch onto him like a warm 

marsupial in mother-worship. 

 

There needn’t be fireworks or 

pink hearts escaping overhead 

or even a mild molecular ripple 

in the air. I have decided 

 

I like being too old to anticipate 

the Earth shattering. What shatters 

is how everything gets to stay 

this way, exactly where it seems 

we will it to be.

---

RISA PAPPAS is an award-winning short filmmaker, published poet, and freelance writer/editor. Punky by nature. Fan of professional wrestling, feminism, and cartoon cheeseburgers. Editor at Tolsun Books. She lives in the Delaware Valley with a cat and too many houseplants.