When my son is asleep, he looks just like my mother scowling in a one piece on a crowded beach, in that photo I stole a few years back, slipped beneath a family portrait. My mother always hated photos. I’m hideous, she’d say — hide me. We’d block her body, her daughters dutiful buoys surrounding her drowning head. We learned then to tread another’s shame. I’m enormous, she’d say. I’m a boat. I’m afraid of my son. He’s so small in his crib. He looks up at me like I’m the whole sky when I tuck him in. But every boy outgrows his baby clothes. His world is gonna grow with him, until I’m just a speck on his shore. Who knows who he’ll be. His father isn’t worried. We’re…
You're reading a preview of
The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, January/February 2025