celebrating baby-- a poem for Sam.

If There is Magick.


If there is Magick in me yet, I will.

I will. I Will it. Warm drops will

fall (only lightly) on the knotty winter coat

that grandma has knitted, sweatily.

An hour or two with your small, round stare will

hold, and sway, the whirlwind-reaper.

It Will, If there is Magick.


You (another pebble) will be found and named.

Then, son, sling up gravel with those minute hands

as David of old—with the Lord to bless the armor

of your scabby knees; your damp, tousled

helmet & dangling jinglebell—you Will

if there is Magick.


If there is any foolish act that a mother's

mean, red courage can inspire, it will be

I. Me, facing an eternal bar. See—

myself, there beside a bench piled with

lethal evidence. Skin beneath my torn

fingernails. I Will, if there is Magick.


Your voice (small, a whistle) will be heard. It will

be. All will hear, and fall back, startled

at you, and your reality; the bile

that pumps your beating eyes. The breath

that curls your pinky toes. The racket of

the mile of thoughts that hide there,

in your bended tongue—they Will

if there is Magick.