I am not dumb. I knew
you would leave. I watched

from my high window
that early morning

as you ran away, your feet
kicking up a parade

of dust. I remember kissing
your toes, each piggy each

bird’s claw raised to my lips –
I love you. I didn’t say it

enough, no one does. And
in that opening dawn

I wondered if you knew. If
you had asked, I would

have followed you to God
still in my bathrobe, the loose

ties fanning across the dirt.
I would have opened

my womb up, cut out
my insides to give you

a nest, would have stood
in front of the Pharaoh’s gun –

my son, what can I do
to call you back?