first day

little t.s.' secret
by matt porubsky

you're sitting in a rocker
of bent wire and
stretched cloth,
rhythmed by the
new father's toe.
he leans forward and
funnies his face
and we, all three boys,
laugh.
your belly breathes
under your vermouth
colored clothes,
buttoned up the leg.
your mama got home from
work a few hours ago,
and brings in tomorrow's
shirt to be pressed.
she giggles spanish
sounds at you while the
iron bubbles and hisses.
she sighs
a sweet columbian sigh
in unison with the
iron's steamy one.
you have the new father's
hair and brow,
your mama's penny nose
and pretty feet,
and share both of their
warm chocolate eyes.
mama says you should be
crawling soon,
but i know your secret.
i know before you can crawl,
you can fly.
when we go fix our plates
for dinner, you float
out of your rocker
and bounce on the
air around the room,
in cobwebbed corners
and dusty doorways.
you laugh, in the air, with your
mama's little lips
and rolling tongue,
and watch with
the new father's
observant eyes and
biting brain.
i always hear from
the kitchen, that's
why i know your secret.
i hear it when you laugh.

it's time to show the world just how high you can fly. we love you eliot.