Through a Glass Poem by Chana Bloch

On the crown of his head
where the fontanelle pulsed
between spongy bones,
a bald spot is forming, globed and sleek
as a monk's tonsure.

I was the earliest pinch of civilization,
the one who laced him
into shoe leather
when he stumbled into walking upright.
"Shoes are unfair to children," he'd grouse.

Through a pane of glass
that shivers when the wind kicks up
I watch my son walk away.

He's out the door, up the street, around
a couple of corners by now.
I'm in for life.
He trips; my hand flies out;

I yank it back.