Do you remember, Jacob, 
how life passed through us like 
               light moving Westward?

I knew that we would have a son
when I started craving dandelions:
               stem and flower.

I wanted to pull them up and taste 
their roots. When I was lying 
               in that bed, from 

the window I saw a giant blade 
of grain inching toward the sky, 
               its stalk of braided

seeds trembling with my pain. 
Light fled the house, blood-
               currant buds 

darkening in the yard. And then 
three branches stretched in through 
               the open window:

vines of flowers and green leaves 
filling the room with sharp pink light, 
               color cast against 

darkness. An aurora borealis 
on my body. The smell of blood
               filled the room. 

Summer comes. You bring me 
strawberries from the yard.
               They redden faster 

than we can eat them,
and when weeds make their homes
               in our garden

we pull them up by their hairy roots 
and find new ones by evening. 
               This is how 

I think of all your children. Why 
do we fight to put things where
               they don’t want to be?