Apology to My Son, Eight Months in the Womb

I sent the thought of you tumbling when I knew.
There were calls like a newsroom
and nothing I could do: I could wander,
do what I do, but not without your hazy truth

rounding out my view, tenting my nights
as you inch your way up
like the water in your sister’s tub, like the Legos
your brother’s putting together.

I spent the summer shaking you loose,
watering every newborn
blade and dry patch hardened into clay,
into the life I had zipped up and called a family.

By now you must be hearing
our muffled kitchen voices
designating your trundle bed, singing
non words and naming you.

The way death ends, you begin,
and I’m still trying to find my way to you,
to welcome you home
at the end of our dark tunnels.