My son's legs are solid as pestles
and runic stones,
as tapered as larch trees.
I delight in the perfection of his legs.
It's for him that our ancestors
reared up and stuttered across the plains.
For him that those on two legs
slowly straightened their spines
and rolled back Promethean shoulders.
So that my son can walk through the house
in his underwear when he should be sleeping.
So that I can turn him out of my room
on his glorious legs—
no firebird's golden feathers more precious
than those corn cob thighs.
No seraphims' burning wings more glorious
than those calves unbloomed with veins.
And those wide, always dirty feet,
that run when they should walk.
Twinned staffs, swords, thunderbolts!
I Watched You Disappear
Louisiana State University Press